


Adrift

by NorthernLights37



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Boatsex, F/M, Fluff, R Plus L Equals J, Romance, Smut of varying degrees, The wonder of conception in story form
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-03-29 08:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 114,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13923576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernLights37/pseuds/NorthernLights37
Summary: 30 one-shots from the 30 day voyage to White Harbor, in chronological order.Not necessarily angsty, just the kind of semi-fluffy smut that makes you feel good.No one single POV.  We'll figure it out as we go, pals.





	1. A Man of Action

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NoOrdinaryLines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoOrdinaryLines/gifts).



> The Prompt:
> 
> Stuck on a ship 
> 
> Assuming Jonerys will be on the boat for 30 days I would like to read a story where each chapter represents one day - beginning with #BoatSex being day 1. I would also like to have a chapter a day if possible. Think of it as a series of connected oneshots. I will be forever grateful for whoever writes this. Thank you. 
> 
> The best gift is the one you give yourself, especially your past-divergent-timeline version :) Enjoy!

Jon walked quickly down the corridor to his sleeping berth, his stomach in knots and his hands aching with tension.  He let himself in quickly, blowing a breath out through his nose and pressing his lips together.

There was a buzz of excitement, anticipation akin to what he felt before battle, that had been coursing through him since the Queen had agreed to sail with him to White Harbor.  He really did think the Northern lords would receive them better if they arrived together as allies, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t hoped for some other possible outcomes.  And he’d thought, from the way she looked at him, the tone of her voice when she’d agreed to the plan, that she might have the same thoughts.

So Jon had been concocting a thousand different foolhardy plans; when he should seek her out, what he should say, how long he should wait.  They were all impossibly terrible, of course; he shouldn’t have expected any less, as in his limited experience the only sure way to know if a woman was flirting with you was if she tried to kill you at some point.  As Daenerys had not made any overt attempts on his life, had in fact brought her dragons to save him, he couldn’t find enough evidence to convince himself that calmly walking up to her door was going to happen. 

Jon had to, though.  For all that it might completely ruin any alliance, for all that he may be totally mistaken in how she felt about him, he needed to do this.  It was a hunger that had been soft at first, just there around the edges, the natural attraction any man would feel towards someone as beautiful as she was.  Then it had changed, and he wasn’t sure when it started, but when he’d woken up to find her sitting at his bedside he’d realized it was far too late for him to stop it now.  Now that hunger had grown; it had claws and fangs and was devouring him from the inside, demanding to taste her and touch her and know what it was like to be inside her.

Jon groaned, covering his face with his hands.  Best not to think about that right now, either; He hadn’t had a woman in so long that he had a very real concern that he wasn’t going to make it past seeing her tits before he spilled like an overexcited virgin.

“Working up the nerve, your Grace?”  Jon should have been aggravated that Davos was in his room.  He should have been frustrated that Davos couldn’t seem to keep himself from meddling when it came to the Queen, but all he could seem to conjure up for now was a helpless indecisiveness.  Jon looked up, seeing Davos seated before the fire, a book open on his lap as he smirked at him.

“For what, Ser Davos?”  Jon walked over and stood before the fire, holding his hands before the flame, his back to the Onion Knight so he wouldn’t have to have this conversation while actually looking at the man.

“Marching yourself down to the Queen’s cabin and givin’ her what she came for, I suppose.”  Jon scoffed at both the words and the tone, furrowing his brow as Davos just chuckled.

“And that’s what, in your estimation, Davos?”  Jon could tell he sounded irritated.  And when it came to Daenerys Targaryen, Davos seemed to think he was some sort of expert, which just made Jon even more irritated.

“Oh, I don’t know, Jon Snow.”  Davos stroked a hand across his cheek and down his chin.  “Seems to me a right good fuck would be the logical place to start.”

“And what, Davos?”  Jon wasn’t sure what Davos expected of him.  He was not the sort of man who had a way with words, especially around women.  Especially her.  “I can’t just walk down there and tell her my Hand thought it’d be a good idea to come and fuck her before everyone turns in for the night.”

Davos laughed then, coming to stand beside Jon before the fire, staring into the flames as Jon was.

“No, I suppose that wouldn’t be the best option.”  Davos heaved a deep breath, exhaling loudly before he started to speak again, his tone a bit cautious.  “Should’ve told you this before now, but I thought you’d figured it out just like the rest of us had.”  His pause made Jon turn to look away from the red-gold light of the fire and meet his eyes.  “Hells, Jon, she’s in love with you.”  Jon immediately opened his mouth to refute the claim but Davos held up a hand, his tone serious now.  “Stop.  You didn’t see her at Eastwatch, before you somehow managed to cheat certain death.  Yet again.”  Davos shook his head, staring into the flames and clucking his tongue once.  “Saddest thing I ever saw.  She watched for you from the top of the wall, wouldn’t leave to eat or rest, wouldn’t accept that she’d had to leave you behind.” 

Davos hummed under his breath, apparently having had enough of the flames for now as he took his seat.  Jon was feeling a bit numb now at his Hand’s words, but wasn’t entirely convinced that even strong concern for him meant that Daenerys Targaryen had somehow fallen in love with him.  “Doesn’t mean she cares for me enough not to slam her door in my face for my presumption alone, Davos.”

“Gods, you’re thickheaded when you want to be, Jon Snow.”  Jon narrowed his eyes, but didn’t interrupt when Davos made to continue.  A part of him wanted to hear this, all of it, wanted to be convinced that it was an excellent idea to go to her room and do all the things he’d thought about doing to her.  “She refused to leave your side until you woke up on that ship, Jon.  And then, this Queen with dragons that can take her wherever she wants to go, she agrees to sail with *you* instead.”  Davos picked up his book again, a low laugh punctuating his next words.  “I was there, I saw the way she looked at you when she agreed to this little excursion.”

Jon felt a wave of relief at that; perhaps that hadn’t been entirely his own imagination convincing him she had any interest in him at all.  “And how do you think she looked at me?”

Davos smiled, wide and knowing, pitching his voice low.  “Looked to me like she was starving, and you were the meal.” 

Jon could feel his eyes grow wide.  Alright.  He could do this.  If he was going to do this, he had to do it now, before he made it home and had to start fighting in this godsforsaken war.  He nodded to himself and took a few deep, slow breaths to settle his nerves.  He could do this.  He just had to go down there, and knock, and…shit. 

“What the fuck do I say, Davos?”  He could hear the desperate edge to his voice, and under other circumstances he might have been ashamed, but as far as women went Davos had leagues more experience than Jon.

“Nothing.”  Davos’s voice was gruff.  “You aren’t a bleedin’ poet, Jon Snow.  You’re a man of action, not words.  You go down there and knock.  And when she answers, don’t say a word, just wait.  She’ll know why you’re there, trust me.”  Now Davos gave him an encouraging smile.  “If she lets you in, you’ll know I’m right.  If she doesn’t then come back here and hit me ‘til you feel better.”

Jon looked around, wondering if he’d truly lost his mind this time, for even considering this.  Perhaps when that Red Woman had brought him back some common sense and self-preservation had been lost in the process, because Davos was relatively convincing, and he’d gone and pushed Jon past the point of backing down now. 

If Jon was going to die, he wasn’t going to die a fucking coward.

\---------------

Time to knock, if he was going to.  He’d been standing out here too long to have a good reason for it if someone happened by, so he either needed to be a man and knock or come to his senses and escape to his own room before he got caught mooning at her door like he was fucking daft. 

Jon let out a breath, raising his hand and hesitating.  He remembered what Davos said; he remembered how they’d looked at each other when she’d agreed to this voyage with him.  He’d come this far, so he might as well see it through.  He gave the wood and iron door three rapid knocks with his knuckles, nerves immediately seizing his stomach and making him shake his head. 

Then she opened the door and he realized he couldn’t have said anything if he’d wanted to.  All he could do was stare at her; at first she looked as though she was surprised to see him, but that had rapidly shifted to something else in those amethyst eyes.  Davos was right.  Daenerys Targaryen was hungry.  For him.

Perhaps that was the extra bit of confidence he needed to ease those last nerves coursing through him.  Her eyes never left his but her arm was gently swinging the door wider, inviting him in.  And as he stepped across the threshold, turning to push that door closed and seal the both of them together in her chambers, he wasn’t nervous at all.  Just hungry.

Jon left one hand on the door, eyes moving from the wood back to her face.  She’d kept her expression relatively blank when she’d opened her door for him, but now he saw it, the corners of her lips turning up slightly, lips twitching a bit as if she were trying desperately not to allow more than that.  Maybe she was as nervous as he had been.  He hadn’t really considered that; she was a Queen and she had dragons and she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever fucking seen in his life.  Surely she’d known he’d find his way here eventually.

Her eyes dropped to his lips, now, then down to his chest, still covered in leather.  He stayed silent while her eyes studied him, in no rush, and finally she met his gaze once more.  Now she did smile, coyly, her eyes showing a bit more of the desire she’d managed to contain before this night, this moment.

“I’m impressed, Jon Snow.”  The Queen stopped trying to keep her gaze from his mouth, now, and he watched her wet her own lips with her tongue before he responded to her, the low, silky tone she used firing his blood.

“Why, Daenerys Targaryen?”  He kept his voice just as low and quiet as she had, realizing that she was just as lost in all this as he was when her eyes slipped closed at his words, and he reached out without realizing what he was doing, bringing a hand to cup her face.

Her eyes shot open at his touch, leaning against his palm before bringing her hand up, tracing her fingertips over his lips.

“You are far braver than the Mother of Dragons.”  She gave him a wry half smile, her hand now venturing down to hook her finger in fabric at his collar.  “I didn’t think I’d work up the nerve ‘til at least tomorrow.”

She turned, now, silver hair cascading down her back, and his fingers itched to be buried in it, strands slipping through his fingers.  Daenerys gave a gentle tug at his collar, pulling him over to her bed where she faced him once more.  He saw it, again, a little flicker of shyness; he marveled that his seemed to have been purged from his system as soon as she let him in, just as Davos had sworn she would.  And he also realized that if he didn’t kiss her soon he was going to lose his mind altogether.  Jon slid a hand behind her back, palm rasping against the course fabric of her thick dress, drawing her against him suddenly.  There was no tension in her at this, he was relieved to see; she melted into him and against him, her face upturned as if she was on the edge of madness as well to feel the press of his lips. 

Jon had always considered himself a giving man, so he gave her what she wanted.

He brought his hand up, palming her cheek and kissing her gently at first, just gliding his lips against hers, getting used to the feel of those lips against his, sweeter than he could have imagined and softer than he’d dreamed.

But when she moaned against him mouth he had no choice but to tease his tongue against those oft-thought of lips, blood rushing southward as she did not hesitate to open to him and meet his tongue with her own.  His own moan, impossible to contain as she softly stroked her tongue against his, was all the encouragement she needed to bring her hands to his neck, her breasts pressing against his chest through far too many layers.

Jon pulled back, releasing her mouth and studying her face, her cheeks flushed prettily as her eyes crawled open.  She gazed at him in return, smiling now until her eyes travelled down to his chest.  She frowned at him, but her eyes betrayed her intent to tease him, sparkling with amusement.

“I ought to send you straight back to your cabin for wearing all *this* Jon Snow.”  Her hands came to rest on the leather covering his chest, one finger plucking at the lacing.  “Treasonous, expecting me to sort all this out.” 

“Well now we can’t have that.”  Daenerys smiled at the growl in his voice, stepping back to see him quickly unlace and pull his leathers over his head, remaining in almost frantic motion as he made short work of the quilted tunic as well.

She bit her lip, bringing her hands up to trail over the thin tunic covering his chest now, the heat of her hands bleeding through the fabric and setting his skin aflame.  Jon brought her back into the circle of his arms, then, and brought his lips to her ear.  He could smell the sweet scent of her hair, his nose buried in the strands as he whispered her name.  “Daenerys.”

“Hmmmm?”  She shivered in his grasp, her hands sliding around his side to sneak under the hem of the tunic, mapping the muscles of his back as she slid her lips lightly down his neck.

“You’d better show me the proper way to take this thing off or I’ll end up ruining it.”  Jon ran a palm along the center seam, detouring to slide along her covered breast, and she couldn’t seem to stop herself from arching into his hand.

“Don’t you dare.”  Her words were chastising but she was laughing, slim fingers that Jon suddenly imagined elsewhere flicking hooks free until she’d reached the last.  Her hand held the two halves of fabric together, a small smirk gracing her lips as she finished her task.  “It’s fortunate, Jon Snow, that I had faith in your bravery.”

Jon brought his lips to neck, needing to feel and taste the silk of her skin against his tongue.  “And why is that, Daenerys?”  His hands slid to her hips under the flare of the fabric she held closed, rubbing slow circles as he tried to slow his racing heart.

“Because unlike you I made sure I wasn’t wearing unnecessary, troublesome layers.”  He pulled his head back just in time to see her shed the garment from her body, and Jon had known deep down, in that place in his mind that allowed small luxuries such as imagining what every part of her would look like naked, that she would have magnificent tits.  Of course she would.  But the reality of it…there was a fierce battle raging between his cock and his knees, neither of which wanted him to remain standing much longer.

Jon slid his hands up, slowly tracing across the soft skin of her abdomen, gooseflesh rising in the wake of his fingers until he reached the full, round swells of her breasts.  He ghosted his fingers across her nipples, watching them harden further in the dim light of her room, his mouth fastening down on one dusky pink peak.  Any blood that had thought to linger elsewhere flew straight to his cock as she cried out sharply, her hips shifting before him still covered in woolen leggings.

Too many clothes.  Far too much still existed between his skin and hers, and he worked her with his mouth and tongue and fingers until her nipples were slick and glistening from his attention, her breath coming in swift pants now. 

Daenerys pushed at his shoulders suddenly, ‘til the back of his knees hit her bed.  “You’d better get the rest of those clothes off, Jon Snow.  I’m tired of waiting.”

Oh, he was certainly ready to be rid of his clothes, and hers, to see what it actually felt like to feel her against his skin.  He pulled the tunic off, flinging it across the room and smiling at her burst of laughter at the action.  And when he unlaced his breeches she was more than willing to match him, hooking her thumbs into the waist of the leggings she wore and sliding them slowly over her hips and down her legs, taking her boots off as well.

Jon’s heart was thundering in his chest as he made short work of his breeches and boots, straightening slowly as they each stared, eyes tracing everything that had been hidden from view before this moment.  He felt his chest tighten as he looked at her, now, completely bare before him.  Jon wanted to explore her, take his time with her, feel her break around his tongue and his hand and whatever else would please her before he buried himself inside her, but it had been far too long since he’d had a woman like this, and she was far more perfect than his mind had been capable of imagining.  He’d make this last as long as he could manage, and he’d pray the Old Gods hadn’t taken whatever stamina he’d been in possession of before he’d died.

Daenerys brought her hands to his shoulders and pushed, not hard enough to force him onto the bed, but firmly enough to make her wishes known, certainly.  Jon took the hint, moving back and up ‘til there was a pillow beneath his head, realizing she was just as eager as he was when she crawled quickly up, straddling his thigh and attacking her mouth with his and making him groan as he felt how ready she was, how slick she’d already before he’d really gotten to touch her everywhere he wanted.  Her hand slid across his chest, fingers dancing along his skin as she ventured down, the gentle touch almost torturous as she teased along the hot, hard skin of his cock.  He whimpered in his throat, the sound barely escaping between their lips, and she withdrew her hand, shifting her body so that he was pressed against her soft stomach.

He smiled against her lips, feeling hers twist in return as he brought his hands to her braided hair to hold her against him.  Davos had been absolutely right, he realized.  She wanted this as much as he did.  Maybe she did love him; his own battle against it had been lost for a good bit of time now.

Jon was not stingy with praise for those who had earned it.  And, every now and then, Davos Seaworth was the smartest man in the Seven Kingdoms.


	2. Surprising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 - Daenerys learns some things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sneaking it in right before it's tomorrow in the Pacific Time Zone - IT COUNTS DAMMIT :)

Jon Snow, Daenerys realized, was full of surprises.

She had not been surprised that he had knocked on her door; no, from the moment she had agreed to this voyage she thought they’d each understood what remained unspoken that day.  She had expected they would be here, as they were now, together.  She had been surprised that he’d been so much braver than she had; he was not a man who seemed as though he dedicated much time to romancing women.  She herself hadn’t gotten the nerve, though she’d wanted to in a way that surprised her.

Jon Snow was a surprisingly intense man when his clothes were off, in a way that made him devote himself wholly to a serious and maddening study of her body.  She wasn’t sure how long it had actually taken, this mapping of every valley and curve with his hands that became a very enthusiastic and focused exploration with his mouth.  But she was sure that no man had ever tried to know her in such a way, and when he touched her it was as if he was trying to know her skin as well as his own.

Jon Snow had a surprisingly dry sense of humor that had only been hinted at that day in the Dragon Pit, but now she knew that he could be quite funny indeed when he wanted to be.  And he wanted to be when she lay against his chest, her legs twined around his, their bodies still damp with sweat.

Jon Snow was surprisingly easy to love.

That surprise was the one that made her lay there on her side, eyes sliding over him as he slept, breathing very deeply every so often as the realization hit her in waves.  She was definitely in love with him; she’d suspected that to be the case when he left on that awful mission north of the Wall, and she’d known it was true when her heart stuttered back to life at the sight of him riding back to her as she waited atop that same Wall.  It had not truly registered as real, though, ‘til she’d been by his bedside, his hand in hers and his voice calling her his Queen.  She saw it in his eyes, then, all those things she felt and tried to bury beneath reasons that didn’t seem to matter anymore.

What care should she have for politics now that she knew what was out there?

What cause should she find to deny herself this?

Why should she go to war without knowing what it felt like to love Jon Snow?  And to have Jon Snow love her?

Why should she spend the rest of her days alone, however few may remain, instead of with the man sleeping beside her?

By the time she’d boarded this ship, she had come to terms with the fact that she could not answer those questions anymore.  She could not find it in herself to sacrifice this time.  Life had never given her a chance at this; love had been no friend of Daenerys Targaryen.

She had not known what it could be to share her body with someone she was already in love with.  She had not realized what it was like to be touched by someone she trusted so deeply, someone she respected as an equal.  She had no reason to suspect how different each touch would feel, how much more magnified each sensation would be, how much she would crave him as he did her, almost drunk on the feel of him and what he did to her.

Now she knew.  And she may die in this fight, she knew that.  She had no hesitation in risking her life to save her people.  Neither did Jon Snow.  But if she died it would not be full of regret over wasted time.  They would just make the most of the time they had together while they could.

She inched closer, her forehead almost touching his.  Jon’s breath puffed out between his parted lips, and within a few moments of watching him sleep, face relaxed and smiling slightly, she thought it would be an excellent idea to kiss him. 

Daenerys pressed her lips to his lightly, sliding her head back to see his reaction.  She smiled slowly as his eyes cracked open, a few bleary blinks helping him focus on her face, inches away.

There was a flash of fear that surprised her and made her a little sad.  She’d heard enough about him from Tyrion to know that Jon had never really felt a part of his family, that in being a bastard he’d come to think of himself as less than those around him.  She just kept smiling, hoping the warmth that stirred in her chest was visible in her eyes.

He looked at her seriously, his eyes staring into her almost has they had the prior night, searching.  He must have found what he was looking for, confirmation that it was alright for him to be there, that she wanted him there, and his chest gave a great rise and fall.  He shut his eyes for a moment, opening them as he felt the tip of her finger trace down his nose and across his lips.

“Are you hungry, Jon Snow?”  She gave a small laugh at the suspicious look her gave her.  “For food, of course.  Although I am open to other possibilities.”  She watched his eyes narrow as she let her hand slide across his chest, trailing down his abdomen, the terrain growing steadily more familiar to her now.

He finally laughed, grabbing her wrist loosely between his fingers and bringing her hand to his mouth to kiss.  “Oh, I’m open to whatever possibilities you had in mind.”  Jon’s voice was slow and scratchy with sleep, and it made her stretch against him as he spoke.  His eyes shot to hers, corners crinkling a bit as he smirked slightly.  “But if I don’t eat soon I’m not going to be of any use to you.”

She twisted her hand in his, moving her fingers to lace within his and laying her head on his chest.  “It fills me with regret to say this, Jon, but you must put your clothes on.”  Daenerys leaned her head back, cheek still against his chest but her eyes now able to find his.  “And, so must I.”

There was a slight tremor in his chest of contained laughter that contrasted with his sad, morose tone as he responded.  “Of all the tragedies that have befallen me, this is by far the greatest.”

She gave a chuckle, patting his cheek.  “You poor thing.”

Daenerys rose deliberately, walking unhurried to find a shift to slip into from the large trunk against the opposite wall.  There was a swift intake of breath, and she stole a glance over her shoulder as she drew a shift out, slipping the fabric over her arm. 

There was something dangerous about Jon Snow in the morning, his face still relaxed but aware of her every move she made.  She could see his eyes memorizing her, so focused it was as though he thought she would disappear if he took his eyes off of her for even a moment.  It was tempting to forget things like eating when Jon Snow looked at her like that, because she wasn’t sure she had ever been wanted like this, and feeling wanted was horribly addicting.

Daenerys reached down, grabbing the breeches he’d shed the prior night, and handing them to him as he lay there watching her.  “The sooner you put on your pants, Jon Snow, the sooner you needn’t wear them again.”

She slipped her shift on as he sighed heavily.  “A valid point.” 

He pulled on his clothes quickly then, already lacing his leathers while she still worked her fingers up the fastenings of her overcoat.  Jon was glancing through the window, the sun just cresting over the horizon as she pulled on her boots.  How beautiful he was, she thought, pale skin now washed in golds and pinks. 

She sidled up to him, slipping under his arm as she took in the view.  Without a thought she was leaning against his shoulder as his he brought his arm around her, holding her closer to press a kiss into her hair.  Now she didn’t want to leave, not at all.  There was something about him that made her feel still, or calm, or peaceful.  Maybe all of those things.

“Let’s get this done, before I change my mind about leaving.”  His voice was reluctant, but she heard his stomach growl under all those layers and stepped away, taking his hand in hers and pulling him with her to the door.

\------------

It was just the two of them, at first, and Daenerys found herself drinking and eating with haste, seated decorously across the table from the Northern King who alternated bites of the biscuits and hash with knowing looks that made her press her lips together in want.

It was Tyrion’s ringing voice, still slightly slurred, that snapped her out of her growing haze of desire, calling out “I’m surprised to see the Queen up at such an early hour.”

Daenerys looked at Jon, whose eyes were narrowing slightly at he watched Tyrion enter.  She slid her foot against his under the table, getting his attention as he snapped his eyes to hers.  She shook her head slightly at him, pointing to herself slightly before Tyrion took a seat beside her.

“No need to waste the day, Lord Hand.  I trust you slept well to be rising so early yourself?”

Tyrion looked between the two of them and scoffed.  Irritation was flaring in her chest, now.  She valued her Hand’s counsel, but she had found that he believed himself to be far more clever than anyone in the room, even Daenerys.  She could see where he planned to take this, she had known he would raise the issue as soon as he discovered what she and Jon Snow were up to in her rooms, so she would have this conversation now and be done with it.

“I daresay I hardly slept more than an hour or two your Grace.”  He glanced at her now.  “For some strange reason, the quarters nearest yours seem to be the most uncomfortable on this ship.  Can you imagine why?”

Well, then.  He dared far more than she’d assumed he would, and she could see Jon clenching his jaw to keep from speaking. 

“That’s terrible, my Lord.”  Daenerys took a bite of her food, chewing thoughtfully.  She swallowed, meeting Tyrion’s put-upon gaze.  “Have you thought of putting your head *under* your pillow?”  The man looked at her, confused and a bit disbelieving.  “I understand that can help reduce the sound of bothersome noise.”

“You see, Tyrion,” she continued, folding her hands together and placing them on the table, “I would assume that you bring up such an awful predicament because you are searching for assistance in lessening your discomfort.  I would never dream that my Hand would presume to think he had the power to dictate what occurs in rooms near his.”  She kept her gaze on him, all trace of humor gone, her voice purely steel as sharp as the blade Jon Snow bore.  “Nor the volume level at which such activities occur.”

Tyrion looked a bit helplessly to Jon Snow for assistance, but his dark gaze held no pity for the man, it merely waited.

“Surely you didn’t think you would be able to keep this secret from me.”  Her Hand’s eyes narrowed at her, studying her face now as if he couldn’t believe she would stand her ground on this.

Daenerys looked at Jon now, whose gaze had flitted to hers, a bit unsure.  She gave him a grin and eyed Tyrion once more, calmly asking, “Why would I keep it a secret?  The decision as to who shares my bed, or anything else, remains solely mine so long as I draw breath, my Lord.  I have lived far too much of my life without that freedom, and I will not relinquish it for your political concerns.”

Tyrion dipped his head, considering.  “Apologies, your Grace.”

“Then speak plainly when you address me, my Lord.  No more games.”  She could see Jon watching them, and she was inordinately pleased that he was honoring her request.  She had worried that, after he’d shared her bed, he would become just another man who thought she couldn’t fight her own battles, as though she hadn’t always had to fight her own battles and was well versed in how to win.  Jon Snow was surprising.

“We should probably discuss the ramifications.”

Daenerys gave a chuckle.  “My Lord, were we not sailing toward a war against the Night King and vast numbers of undead soldiers marching South to kill anyone and anything in it’s path, I would at least be willing to consider your council on this.”  She leaned over a bit, her voice gaining intensity.  “This war will not be won with politics.  Politics are your specialty.  This war will be won with sheer, brute force.  This war will be won with Fire and Blood.”  She let her voice trail off, grimness and acceptance warring on Tyrion’s face.  “Those, if you recall, are my specialties.”

Tyrion cleared his throat.  “Indeed they are.”

“You will not dictate to me what I am allowed when I am risking my life to save us all, as is Jon Snow.  And you cannot expect us to sacrifice our lives and have nothing for ourselves.  No matter what concerns it may raise for you.”  She tried to keep her voice kind, but there was a firmness to it that made him nod slightly.

“I see.”  Tyrion checked his gaze between the two, Daenerys feeling Jon’s eyes firmly on her.  “Enjoy your morning.”

Daenerys finished her drink as Tyrion left, finding Jon still watching her as she finally turned his way.  “What?”  He laughed at her questioning expression, pushing his plate back and standing.

“Nothing.  Are you ready?”  He came around, pulling her chair out as she stood and giving her his arm.  She took it gladly, shaking her head as he kept glancing at her.

“Jon Snow, you might as well tell me.  I’ll get it out of you eventually.”  He laughed, the sound making her smile as it echoed down the narrow hallway towards her chambers. 

“I’m starting to think you may defeat the Night King yourself through sheer force of will.  I’m amazed Tyrion even bothered trying.”  He stopped walking, reaching her door.  “I’d better go check in with Davos before he wakes up enough to be talkative.  I’ll return shortly.”  He turned, bringing her into the circle of his arms and giving her a sweet, hard kiss that hinted at the restraint he was currently exercising.

She leaned up, nipping his ear a bit in a way which she had discovered he greatly enjoyed, giggling at the groan that escaped as she whispered, “Hurry.”

\-------------

Daenerys took her brief solitude to deal with nature’s demands, removing her jacket and washing up before sitting before her dressing table to sort of the hastily smoothed mess of braids and strands as best she could.  She was running a brush through the ends as he re-entered, not even bothering with knocking as he strode in, heavy furs around his shoulders and a bundle in his arm.

“How bold, Jon Snow.”  She raised a brow and smiled as he walked over, placing the bundle on the bench at the foot of the bed.  “And how is it that you come to me with more layers on than you wore last night?” 

Jon reached up, smile tugging at his lips as he removed the heavy Northern cloak, laying it flat across one of her trunks.  “I had to bring what I could wear or carry, my Queen, as Ser Davos has claimed my quarters for his own.”

Daenerys placed the brush back on the table, much more comfortable now that her hair wasn’t tugging painfully at the back of her neck.  She sauntered over as he pulled off the shirt he’d apparently swapped out on his journey to his own chambers.  The desire she’d banked to force herself to leave the room with him earlier roared back to life in her ask she ran her eyes across his chest, watching the muscles in his back move as he pulled of his boots hastily.  Jon stilled at the touch of her hands on his back as she drew up behind him, her fingers playing across the skin there as he allowed her inspection. 

At the feel of her hands sliding around his sides to play along the his waist he moaned, catching her palms in his for a moment and squeezing before turning to face her. 

Jon Snow’s eyes gave away far more than he might know, and through the want and need she saw what beat within her; there was love there, not just desire, something heavy and deep that resonated in her as loudly as if he’d said the words.  He didn’t need to, not right now.  She had seen it all the same.

She reached up, slipping one strap of her shift down and looking expectantly at the pants he hadn’t removed yet before meeting his eyes again.  Jon brought his hands down, unlacing and shucking them down his legs, cock bobbing and ready for her as he stood before her.  He looked to the remaining strap of her shift expectantly, and she gave a wicked grin as she raised a hand and slowly slid the silk down the skin of her shoulder.

The heat in his gaze flared when she brought her other hand up, gliding the fabric down her body, revealing the skin he’d already thoroughly devoured the prior night well into the morning.  That didn’t stop his breath from quickening as he watched the material finally fall to the floor. 

Daenerys slid smoothly onto the bed, crawling up to the headboard and leaning her back against it.  She arched her back a bit at the sight of him, there at the foot of the bed, holding himself back as if he needed permission.  Her head rolled to the side a bit, hair sliding across her shoulder as she asked him slyly, “Don’t you want to join me, Jon?”

That seemed to snap him out of whatever stupor he’d been in as he nodded slowly and walked to the empty side of the bed, and she let her eyes take in the sight of him, that fighter’s body that kept wrapped away in all those Northern trappings, and she rose on her knees, sliding over to meet him as he made to climb on.

Jon Snow had no complaint when she stilled him, her hands on his cheeks as she brought their mouths together, needing to show him the things she couldn’t say yet, things she’d just started believing she was capable of feeling at all.  His hands were on her as soon as their lips met, palms sweeping from shoulder blades to the small of her back and smooth gliding strokes.  She finally gave a gasp of relief when he pulled her against him, the heat of his chest teasing her breasts as she arched against him.

He brought a hand up, fingers weaving into the hair at the base of her neck as he cradled her head, angling her head up and opening her mouth more to his tongue, capturing his bottom lip between hers and suckling hard. 

Daenerys pulled away, watching his heaving chest as his eyes traveled her body.  Jon Snow had been extremely thorough with her, and that had not allowed Daenerys to return the favor.  She wanted to know him as well, wanted to explore him as he had her.  Her eyes traveled down, forging a path for her hand to follow as she brought her hand between them to the hard, heavy weight pressed against her abdomen.

He cursed under his breath at the contact, and brought his eyes to her just as she brought her head down, sliding her tongue from the base of his cock to the tip, his slightly choked exhalation merely encouraging her to slide the head between her lips.  She watched him all the while, eyes staring into his as she worked him farther into her mouth, each slide of her lips and hands making the hard, smooth skin that throbbed for her slicker with saliva.  He gave a ragged cry when she took the length of him in a smooth stroke of lips and fingers, and when she freed him from her mouth he looked at her with such wonder that she knew this was something he may not have experienced before, and it sent a delicious thrill through her at the prospect of giving him this, doing something for this marvelously unselfish man who’d worshipped her so completely the prior night.

Daenerys allowed her hand one last, smooth stroke, meeting his eyes as she knelt before him on the bed.  “Lay back, Jon Snow.”  She crept back to let him onto the bed, finally, crawling between his thighs as he bunched the pillow under his head.  Eyes black as coal now met hers as she curved her upper body down, her breasts brushing against him as she licked her lips.  He was impossibly hard now, a rough exhalation breaking free as she grasped his still-slick cock in her hand, bringing her mouth to hover just above him.  She slid her gaze from her hand to his eyes, waiting until he focused on her before she whispered, “Watch.”

Jon’s expression became almost pained as she parted her lips, angling her head to allow her to slide her mouth wetly down the underside of his length, a drawn-out groan merging with a whispered curse as he fought to keep his eyes open.  It was so rewarding, so exciting to see him so undone that she quickly took him completely into the heated wetness of her mouth, her tongue sliding and pressing with every sweep past the head of his cock, teasing flicks that were chased by the pressure of her fist as she worked him torturously slowly.  His hips were shifting restlessly beneath her, and she placed one hand on the bed near his waist to brace her weight as she slowly sped up, the pressure of her hand and mouth increasing with each stroke until her name on his lips became a begging chant.

Daenerys brought her eyes back to his, letting him see exactly how much she wanted this, wanted him, wanted to please him as he had her, and their gaze held as she hollowed her cheeks, giving him the pressure she knew would send him over the edge, hand and mouth sliding together as he finally gave a hoarse cry, and she moaned as well as she learned the taste of him on her tongue at last, not releasing him from the prison of her mouth until he was completely spent.

She licked her lips, hand stroking his thigh slowly as he lay there, unmoving except for the chest that slowly stopped heaving.  She lay her head beside his on the pillow, giving him a saucy grin as he turned his face to her, eyes wide. 

Jon Snow could have gone to sleep.  She could see the exhaustion catching up to him from their lack of sleep, and she knew it would be very easy to give in, to let his eyes drift shut and rest before he let his hands explore her.

But Jon Snow was a surprising man.  He rolled her onto her back, mouth travelling up her neck in slow, wet kisses as he brought his lips to her ear.  “Your turn.”

 


	3. Delight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valyrian Steel and Nudity

Jon watched as the Queen who’d shared her bed with him for the past few days and nights knelt down, gently picking up his sword belt and bringing it with her as she climbed back into the nest of blankets and pillows on her bed to join him.

There was something very intriguing about the sight of her carrying his sword, not wearing a stitch of clothing, as though she were some warrior goddess of the First Men arming herself for battle.  But she did not keep it gripped in her slim hands, placing it in front of her and folding her bare legs under her as she studied the sheathed weapon, smiling slightly at the wolf’s head on the pommel.

“I understand all Valyrian steel swords have a name, Jon Snow.”  He looked up a bit guiltily from his study of her smooth skin, her eyes dancing as she ran a finger across the carved figure so like his own wolf.

“As far as I know.  Many of the Houses had one at some time or another, but there are few remaining today.”  Jon sighed, reaching across to draw the blade from the sheath and exposing the rippled pattern that ran throughout the long blade.  “This sword is called Longclaw.”

Jon watched her profile as she ran first her eyes, then a lone finger, down the wide center of the blade, avoiding the deadly edge.  She glanced up, curiously, tilting her head a bit.  “This is the ancestral blade of House Stark?”

Jon’s heart clenched a bit.  Ned Stark had ruled the North with Ice in his grip for Jon’s entire boyhood, the sword passing from Lord Stark to Lord Stark for centuries.  He shook his head, looking down at the blade.  “House Stark’s blade was known as Ice.  When the Lannisters took my father’s head they melted his sword down, forged other weapons from it.”  Jon motioned down, hand grasping the handle and raising the blade before them both, daylight filtering through the windows and making it gleam.  “This blade belonged to House Mormont.  Jeor Mormont gave it to me before he died.”

“Jorah’s father?  The Commander you served at the Wall?”  Jon gave her a nod in the affirmative, and she cast those startling eyes of hers back to the sword, examining it anew with this information.

“I tried to give it back to him.”  Her eyes were disbelieving as she gazed at him once more.  “Jorah, that is.  When we were beyond the wall.  It didn’t seem right to keep his family’s blade for myself.”

“You are very lucky you are so comely, Jon Snow, because you are also infuriatingly noble and it is terribly aggravating.”  She tossed her hair, sniffing in feigned irritation before cutting her eyes to his and smirking.  “And just what would you have armed yourself with then?  Just dragonglass?  You cannot surrender a weapon such as this if you are to lead *our* forces in this fight, you foolish man.”

Jon dipped his head at her words, a half-smile sneaking onto his face as he brought his eyes to hers.  “Well, he refused to take it.  Said he’d brought shame to his family and had no right to the blade.”  He looked down at Longclaw, his only real weapon against what they faced to the North, until her fingers reached out and gently turned his face to hers.

“I have been told that Jeor Mormont was a good man.”  At this, Jon nodded.  “If he chose you to bear the sword of his House, then I must agree.  Good men recognize that quality in others, and you are the best man I know.”  Now she tightened her fingers just a bit, forcing him to keep his gaze with hers as she praised him.  It made Jon a bit uncomfortable; he’d grown up hearing praise only in fits and starts, usually when his siblings were not there or Lady Stark was not within hearing distance, and it always gave him a flush of shame, as if he were hearing something he did not deserve to be told.

“And as your Queen I command you to stop trying to get yourself killed at every opportunity.”  Her voice was tight, and there was a fear in her eyes that made Jon swallow hard.  This was all very hard to believe, really, that he was here, with her, a Targaryen Queen just like the ones in the stories he’d read when he was young.  A Targaryen Queen with Dragons who, for whatever reason, thought his place was with her.  He could not stand the sight of it in her eyes, that dread, the edge of pain in her voice.

“I will try very hard not to.”  He couldn’t stop the bark of laughter as she wrinkled her mouth at him, eyes narrowing.

She gave a great sigh, leaning back against the headboard.  “I suppose that’s the best I can expect.  I will not ask you to lie to me to spare my feelings.”  Jon slid Longclaw back into the sheath, grabbing the belt as well and placing them on the floor beside the bed.

He mimicked her pose, all but for the blankets still covering him from the waist down.  He wasn’t a man who was particularly private about his body, but Daenerys seemed equally comfortable completely clothed or bare to his gaze.  Jon did try his best to focus on her face but frankly it was impossible to resist the sway of her tits or the flare of her hips, the curve of her back when she stretched gloriously as she rose every morning.  Though, from the looks she gave Jon as she did so he was beginning to suspect that was for his benefit, as if he needed any prompting to awaken a hunger for her.

That was persistent.  And in retrospect, he had never been more grateful that he’d spent years fighting and marching and walking just to stay alive, because all that conditioning and relentless stamina to push on was being tested in keeping apace with her desire for him. 

Jon reached for her, pulling her closer to his chest and sliding his fingers through her hair.  He had not know it was so very long, or such a chore to maintain, and here on the ship Daenerys had to contend with it herself, having allowed Missandei the freedom to quarter on ship Grey Worm, the Unsullied general he’d briefly met outside King’s Landing.

He held a curl between his fingers, glad she had merely swept some of the silky silver mass back from her face today instead of the countless interwoven braids.  “Have you never wanted to wear this shorter?  Make it easier for you to deal with?”  He grinned wryly at her.  “I know a Queen’s time must be very valuable.”

Daenerys rose away from his chest, amusement in her eyes.  He watched as she twisted herself around, bare legs straddling his covered ones as she faced him, now in his lap, pulling the long strands over one shoulder.  It was a test of pure willpower to keep his eyes on hers, his hands itching to skate across the bare skin before him.

“Have I never told you why my hair is so long, Jon Snow?”  At the shake of his head to the negative, she smiled.  “The Dothraki do not cut their hair until they have suffered loss on the field of battle.  The longer the hair of the one who commands a khalasar, the more feared they become by those who would challenge them.”  Her head tilted at him, beautiful face creeping closer to his, a sly smile stretching her lips in a way that made him want to kiss her until she was breathless.  “If you were to walk amongst my khalasar, Jon Snow, you would find that I have the longest hair of all.  And it is not for lack of battles, I can assure you.”  She dropped her hair then, bringing her lips to his and brushing his mouth with hers.  “I have been fighting my entire life, Jon Snow, and my dragons have not always been there to win the day for me.  I forged myself into a weapon before they became one.”

Jon slid his hands to her jaw, thumbs sweeping across her cheeks as he took her in.  “I have no doubt of that.”  He loved many things about her, things that had been noticed and tucked away into that tiny corner of him that allowed the very idea of her to take root inside him.  She was beautiful, extremely so, but that alone would not have brought him to her door.  But she was also kind, and generous, and she cared for her people.  She did not seek the Iron Throne to force others to submit to her will, he had come to realize that after taking Tyrion’s suggestion that first day, that he should speak to those who’d traveled with her.  Daenerys sought to free people, not to enslave them.  And she would make hard decisions when she must, just as he had learned to do, knowing there would be those who would hate him no matter what he chose.  There was a ferocity to her that he recognized in himself, that stirring in his blood when a fight was imminent.

“You are more fearsome than I could ever hope to be, Daenerys Targaryen.”  He wondered if that was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words left his mouth, realizing she might not interpret that as the compliment he’d meant it to be.

But she smiled widely, kissing him again, sliding her tongue against his lips before pulling back to look in his eyes.  “What a delightful thing to say, Jon Snow.”  He could not help but snort, smiling in return as she slid her hands along his jaw, tracing through the bristled hair she encountered as her palms smoothed down to settle lightly on his shoulders.

“I would imagine you are the first person I have ever encountered that would describe me as such.”  He raised his brows at her, the slightly self-deprecating tone making something in her eyes harden, just a touch, her chin lifting almost regally.

“I have always had an exceptionally keen eye for delightful things.”  Jon gazed at her, her expressive face shifting as her eyes traveled down his chest to the scars marring his skin.  The angry redness was fading from them, slowly, but he was sure it wasn’t pleasant viewing.  She had not asked him again about what happened; had not broached the topic since that day on the cliffs when he’d touched her dragon.  

Daenerys did not ask now, her gaze no longer on his chest but on his face, an awful understanding in her eyes and it hit him.  She knew, perhaps not every detail, but she knew enough, and she did not press him for more, not now.  He would tell her, he would give her every answer she wanted to have, but not until she asked; not until she was ready for all of it.

Jon leaned forward, claiming her lips as his hands slid up the hot skin of her back, coming to rest right behind her shoulder blades as he teased her mouth with his.  She tried to slip her tongue into his mouth and he pulled back, chuckling as she frowned at him and then moving back to capture her lips between his once more, pulling and sucking at them then breaking the contact when she tried to deepen the kiss once more.

Daenerys’s eyes were narrowed, gaze smoldering into him as she climbed off his legs just long enough to sweep the blankets away from him forcefully.  She did not break her stare as she smoothly slid back atop him, pressing herself to his chest and he gasped at the feel of her as she brought her hips into contact with his, resting her weight on him now.  Her lips twisted in a devilish smirk as she ground her center against him, so wet he could feel himself sliding against her easily, need blazing through him to bury himself in her.

“Too distracted to tease now, are we, Jon Snow?”  She arched a brow at him as he panted, his cock parting her folds with every glide of her hips, so close to that grasping wet heat he’d come to crave with her, the absolute perfection that somehow existed between them when they came together, nothing at all like he’d experienced in his past.  This, with her, was not just a joining of their bodies.  It was a rather fanciful notion for an unromantic swordsman such as him, he thought, but with her it was as if she became a part of him, and he became a part of her, and he was not alone.  Now they existed in each other, and he was hers and she was his, and he needed nothing else.

Jon did not answer, just brought a hand behind her neck and drew her mouth to his, finally kissing her deeply, his tongue seeking hers for glancing brushes until she groaned, tilting her head to slide her tongue across his wantonly, the slow stroke sending a rush of heat through him that made him slide his hips up to meet hers.  Jon pulled back, watching her face tense and her teeth catch on her lower lips as he began a slow rhythm against her, the head of his cock sliding against her clit with each stroke.

“Of course not, Daenerys.”  The words ground out through clenched teeth as she began to whimper, the sensation almost what she needed but not enough to grant her the release she strove for, her hips rolling against his as she moaned and gripped the muscles in his shoulders tightly with her fingers.

“Jon.”  His voice was barely an exhale, and she slowed her motion, waiting for him to look her in the eye.  “I need you to do something for me.”  She was panting, short breaths puffing against his lips now.  He couldn’t speak, just nodding as she arched her chest into him, her nipples stiff and brushing against him as she moaned.  “I am no weak girl, Jon Snow.  I am a dragon.  I will not break.”  Her eyes had drifted down to his cock, the thundering of his heart causing his length to twitch with his pulse.  He felt as though he would be consumed by this; the want she set fire to in him, burning them both together in a smoky haze of need and desire and something else they hadn’t set a name to just yet.  She raised her eyes to his now, something daring there, slightly challenging.  “I need you to fuck me, Jon.  Hard.”  Now she gripped his shoulders once more, sliding herself achingly one more time up the stiff length of him.  His groan filled the room, her voice sultry and low as she brought her face close enough to his that he could feel each word as she spoke next.  “I know you want to.  I want you to, as well.”

Jon couldn’t stop his eyes from slamming shut, just the thought of driving into her with abandon making his groin ache almost painfully.  But he forced them back open, meeting her gaze and taking in how dark her eyes were now, desire leaving only a narrow band of amethyst visible.  He skimmed his cheek along hers, hearing her breath catch as his beard rasped along her jaw.  “How can I refuse such a delightful request?”

Daenerys choked out a laugh before leaving his lap to bring her hands to the wooden frame at the head of the bed.  Her eyes had daring and invitation as he realized her intent, rising on his knees to move behind her, and he dropped kisses along her shoulder blades and spine before sliding those waves of moonlight hair to the side and kissing gently at the nape of her neck.

He tried to remain unrushed, the sight of her before him, back arched and the curve of her ass beckoning him closer; it was enough to bring him dangerously close to the edge, and he had no desire to end this quickly.  Jon trailed his hand from her shoulder to her waist, a firm stroke that made her nudge her hips back against him as he brought his hand down, grasping his cock and sliding the tip through the folds so wet with her want that she must have been ready for him for some time.  She keened, hips surging back against him, the sound turning into a sharp cry as he thrust into her fully in a smooth stroke.  They both gasped as his hips met hers, the feeling of finally being deep within the fiery, tight slickness of her making him grasp her hips tighter and clench his jaw.  He drew back slowly, eyes glancing down to in time to watch himself disappear into the swollen pink folds of her as he drove into her forcefully, each thrust earning a cry or moan. His name sounded sweeter than he could ever recall it as she wailed after a particularly firm thrust, her shoulders dropping her upper body down and her hips thrusting higher, the change in angle making him growl that name he wasn’t supposed to call her as she tightened around him.  He tensed, just for a moment, but she only gave an answering gasp, rolling her hips into him as hard as she could manage and he resumed thrusting into her vigorously.

The Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms truly did lack any concern for listening ears, as she gave a loud, sobbing cry, sheath tightening and fluttering around his cock as he lost the will to care at all at the rough cry he gave, letting her climax wrench his along as well.  Jon shuddered, his hands gripping her hips to him as he spilled within her.

Daenerys had collapsed onto her upper body, arms folded below her head as she still panted for breath, a low whine escaping her parted lips as he gently withdrew from her.  Jon shifted to lay beside her, heads facing each other as he pulled the blankets over them, the room a bit chilled with the increasingly cold weather as they sailed farther North.

It was as they stared into each other’s eyes, breathing slowly, that Daenerys began to smile, something that crept slowly at first but then developed into a wide grin, the sight of it wringing a smile from his own lips.

“I told you, Jon Snow.”  She tapped her finger to the tip of his nose decisively.  “You are an absolute delight.”


	4. Relocation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why not just share a room?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, at the request of the lovely NoOrdinaryLines, whose prompt this was to start with, and who is pretty much me from the past, Missandei *is* on the boat. And Jorah. And Gendry. And Tyrion and Varys. And Grey Worm. Because why not? So I am going back and editing Chapter 3 after posting this one to fix the line that implies Missandei is not aboard. She's just been getting her *many things* on. You know how it goes.

A soft knock brought Daenerys out of her reverie, prompting her to bid her guest to enter as she drew back from the window.  It was dreary today, the sun completely blocked by clouds, and she told herself to stop being so dramatic as she imagined the weather mirrored her mood.

Since that first night together she had not been parted from Jon Snow but for a few hasty trips to his cabin or the galley when one of them finally broke down and ventured out alone.  But this morning she knew they must see to their duties, check in with their advisors, go on about the business of being rulers and planning for their arrival in White Harbor.

Daenerys already regretted the decision, though she knew it was for the best.  Her body ached all over from the endless cycle they’d been in, but it was a sensation she yearned for, with him.  With each day that passed she felt each second becoming more precious, time slipping away from her faster than she’d imagined it could because she had completely immersed herself in him, and he in her.

So it was with rather melancholy features that she looked up as Missandei entered her cabin, and she walked over to the dressing table and waited for her dearest friend to join her.  Missandei did, very slowly, looking around the room with curious eyes before coming to stand behind the Queen, meeting her eyes in the mirror and leaning down to whisper beside her face, “What happened to you?”  Her voice was tinged with amusement and curiosity as she took in the rather rumpled and exhausted Dany in the mirror.

Her friend’s eyes sparkled, and her gentle laugh after the question finally brought a small smile to Daenerys’s face.  “The King in the North.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at the expression on her friend’s face, Missandei’s eyes going wide and a hand clapping over her mouth to muffle her incredulous giggle.  One slim hand swept through the mass of hair running down the Queen’s back, tamed but certainly not the formal stylized creations she usually wore.  “I suspected as much.  Lord Tyrion made it clear you were not to be…disturbed.”  Daenerys watched her friend reach for the brush and begin working it through her silver hair.  “I saw the King above deck just now, so I thought I would come to see to how you were faring.”  Their eyes met in the mirror, and Missandei gave a knowing smirk.  “I see, however, that you have found *many things* to occupy yourself on such a long journey.”

Daenerys thought that she certainly had.  Jon Snow was a wonderful thing to occupy herself with, long journey or not; Jon Snow was the sort of thing she wanted to occupy herself with forever.  She had traced her hands and lips and body all over him, had marked his skin with her mouth and teeth, had tasted him wherever and whenever she’d desired, and she still felt as though she had just scored the surface of him. 

But sometimes, when she awoke first and saw him sleeping so peacefully next to her, when he stared into her eyes, loving her slowly and tenderly; When Jon Snow laughed at something she’d said, and all that dread and worry and concern fled his features…in those moments she thought she’d never felt closer to anyone in her life.  In those moments there was peace in her heart that she had never had in her life, and she wanted nothing more but to wrap herself in that, wrap them together in it and hide them away from everything.

Daenerys sighed, then gave her friend a warm smile.  “Indeed I have.  And you, Missandei?  I trust you and Grey Worm have been able to enjoy some time together after so long parted?”  The Queen watched as Missandei looked down, wistful smile on her face as she finished a large braid that ran down Daenerys’s back.  She began braiding smaller sections, eyes climbing back to the mirror now.

“Oh, yes.  We are both most grateful for the respite to…enjoy each other’s company.”  Her friend’s quick hands flew down the strands now, quickly braiding and gathering each plait into the largest and tying off the ends.  “There now.  Much better.”  Missandei leaned down and spoke at a whisper.  “Perhaps you can manage to keep this in good condition until tomorrow, then?”

Daenerys smiled.  She couldn’t remember the last time she was so completely unconcerned with carrying herself as a Queen, presenting herself as every inch the ruler.  She didn’t care what her hair would look like in the morning.  Jon Snow didn’t care; Jon Snow had told her for several mornings now how very lovely he thought she was, and her hair had been a ghastly nest of tangles each time, that much she knew.  “Perhaps.  The King and I must prepare for the defense of the realm, and it happens that Jon Snow is a rather *generous* strategist.”  The Queen pursed her lips and raised her brows at her friend, who chuckled and took her hand, bringing her to stand to help her dress.  “We shall see if my hair can withstand such intricate planning.”

Missandei opened up several of the Queen’s trunks, hands running over various fabrics until she found the one she sought, lifting it to show Daenerys, who quickly nodded.  She wasn’t sure that she’d worn the black and red outfit since she’d landed at Dragonstone and first set foot back on the land of her birth.  She rather liked it, and if it were as chilly as it appeared outside her window she’d need the warmth.  If Jon were here he would probably let her sneak under those heavy furs of his.  But that wouldn’t be where it ended, she knew herself better than that, and that was why they were not huddled together in her bed again.  She was determined to get something accomplished before she allowed herself to get lost in him once more.

Missandei helped her out of her dressing gown, a slight gasp then very poorly concealed snickers as she realized her friend was probably seeing the lingering evidence of what she’d been up to with the King in the North, spots where his short beard had rubbed red patches scattered about, faint marks where Jon Snow’s teeth had grasped her skin, spots where his mouth had worked to the point of barely visible bruising.

“The King in the North is very intense in planning for the defense of the realm.  And extremely thorough.”  Daenerys kept her tone very formal as she drew on the outfit Missandei held out, but once their eyes met she could no longer hold back, especially once her friend snorted and shook her head, and the two were laughing together, almost gasping for air as Daenerys breathed out, “His dedication to his task is admirable.”  She continued to giggle in fits and starts, not realizing until she’d gotten control of herself that Missandei was smiling at her, eyes full of warmth.

The next thing she knew, her translator was hugging her tightly, arms wrapping around her and she returned the embrace.  Missandei pulled back, her incredulous whisper only loud enough for the Queen to hear.  “You’re in love with him, yes?  Truly in love with him.”

Daenerys knew if she answered out loud she would have some silly quaver to her voice; the question alone made her eyes fill a bit as she thought about him.  She nodded; Of course she was, she had been for some time, and she was going to give him all of the love she could for as long as he let her, no matter how much he thought he wasn’t worthy of it.  He was.  He was the only man who’d ever been worthy of it. 

She needed to get out of this room now; it was too full of him and his smell and the memory of him, and she would be productive, even just a little, no matter how much she wanted to find him and hold him and kiss him until she couldn’t breathe.  She would still do all those things, but first she would check in with her Hand and her advisors and see what needed dealing with.

“Come now.  Let us get some fresh air and see what Tyrion has to complain about today.”  Missandei gave a laugh and followed, linking their arms and smiling.  It was good to be back amongst friends.

\---------------

It was Ser Davos, the Onion Knight who found her first, walking with Missandei and talking in hushed tones.  The gruff-looking man gave her a nod and gestured her over, not speaking until the pair approached.  Daenerys placed her hands before her on the railing, eyes on the seas ahead as the old smuggler did the same.  She had spoken to him a handful of times, but had only had one long conversation with him at Eastwatch, while they’d both waiting with fear and dread to see if Jon would return.

“Ser Davos, you are looking well-rested.  I trust you are enjoying the King’s chambers?”  She heard Missandei fight back a laugh, but Davos only smiled, bringing a hand to his back and turning to face her as he spoke.

“My back is certainly grateful not to be in a damn bunk, I’ll say that much.”  His eyes crept back to hers, cautious but amused.  “I don’t suppose I can hope to enjoy such luxury for the duration of our trip?”

Daenerys smiled quickly then immediately put back on the serious, businesslike mask of the Queen.  “I think that would be for the best, Ser Davos.  I cannot deliver the King in the North and his Hand back to their homeland with aches and pains that I could have prevented.”  She saw the Onion Knight’s shoulders shaking in silent laughter and continued, barely able to keep a straight face.  “No, I think it’s for the best that you take that cabin for yourself, Ser.  Would you mind having the King’s belongings delivered to my chambers?”  She hesitated; perhaps that was too bold, even if she thought Jon might love her as well.  “Do you suppose your King will object?”

Now Ser Davos finally broke, a great guffaw escaping as he leaned forward against the rail.  He was wiping under his eye when he responded, still wheezing a bit from laughing.  “Oh, no, your Grace.  I’m sure the King won’t mind a bit.” 

Daenerys smiled, patting a hand on the man’s forearm.  “Thank you, Ser Davos.  I don’t suppose you know where Lord Tyrion might be?”  She watched as the man cocked his head, scratching his jaw as he thought.

“I believe he’s in the galley with some of the men, your Grace.  ‘Least he was last time I saw him.” 

Daenerys thanked him once more, turning and making her way down towards the galley with Missandei in tow, the sound of voices carrying on growing louder and louder as she approached the doors.  Her brow furrowing, she pushed open the door only to be greeted by the sight of weapons covering every dining table in the large room, men huddled here and there, an odd assortment at that; some of Jon’s Northman were raising a Dothraki arakh and examining the cut angles of their arrows, while Qhono and Grey Worm spoke at a table with the King in the North and Jorah, who appeared to be partially translating for the other men.  Gendry, the blacksmith boy who’d sent for her at Eastwatch, was crouched at a table full of Unsullied spears and shields, paper in hand and feverishly sketching some rough drawings.

Tyrion was gesturing to a map laid before him, Varys pointing here and there as they appeared to be examining the best routes to transport supplies and their soldiers to Winterfell and in what order, from the sound of their tense voices.

Everyone fell silent as Daenerys and Missandei entered, eyes falling on them and waiting.  “As you were, please, we did not mean to interrupt.”  The Queen gestured with her hand, eyes fighting the urge to look directly at Jon Snow.  She made it to the count of three before she brought her gaze to where she knew he stood, handsome and regal and beautiful in his furs.  He was looking right at her, of course, eyes tracking her body quickly, and it shouldn’t have sent a rush of heat through her but it did.  Just one simple look and she was restless, ready for him.  As his eyes came back to hers she could see the same in his eyes, and for while it was delicious torture at least she would not endure it alone, and she gave him a quick, tender smile before turning to join Tyrion and Varys.

“My Lords.”  Her tone was clipped but courteous.  She was not going to replay the conversation she’d already had with Tyrion, and it was best to make that clear from the beginning.

“Ah, Your Grace.  So glad you could join us.”  Varys’ voice was smooth and light, and rarely ever mirrored how he actually felt.  “We were just discussing a few possibilities concerning the North.” 

Daenerys felt her brow climb as she looked between the two men, her eyes falling to the map as she asked, “Such as?”

Tyrion bade her take a seat, waiting until both she and Missandei were settled before speaking in hushed tones.  “Do you remember when we left Essos?  What I told you might be necessary to secure alliances in Westeros?”

Daenerys nodded, suspicious as to where her Hand was taking this.  If he thought to separate her from Jon by marrying her to some idiot Lord he would soon find himself on a rowboat headed towards the open sea.

Varys pointed to the map, gesturing the North.  “As you know, the North is the largest of the Seven Kingdoms.”  The bald man tapped the handwritten ‘Winterfell’ and looked at Daenerys.  “Winterfell has always been the key to the North, and Jon Snow is the King they chose to lead them.  Jon Snow’s sister, Sansa, is a Tully of the Riverlands as well as a Stark.  Her Aunt Lysa was Lady Arryn of the Vale before her death.” 

Tyrion risked a small smile at her.  “Were you to marry Jon Snow, you would not only combine the might of your armies and the Northern armies, but the Vale and Riverlands as well.  You would control the most land in terms of geography.  And, perhaps most importantly, you could gain Northern support for your claim without forcing their King to bend the knee.”

Daenerys had considered this.  Of course she had.  She would marry Jon Snow this minute, in the middle of this dining hall, at sea, surrounded by weapons.  But she wasn’t sure if that’s what Jon Snow wanted.  She knew his people chose him, but he never sounded as if that was what he wanted for himself.  She would not put the question of marriage to him unless she knew it was agreeable to him.

“I will discuss it with the King.”  She sighed, looking at Tyrion.  “He’s already signed his raven to his sister as Warden of the North.  Not exactly a power-hungry sort, is he?” 

Varys hummed under his breath, his eyes on her calculating and considering.  “It has been much time since Westeros has known such a King.”  Varys leaned in.  “If you were to wed, your Grace, would you allow Jon Snow to rule beside you?  As your King?  As equals?”

Daenerys looked at him now, talking to Jorah and Qhono and Grey Worm, pointing to the blade on his sword and speaking, expression deadly serious Grey Worm listened intently and Jorah translated for Qhono.  Her bloodrider held out his hand for the sword, and to her amazement Jon Snow did not even hesitate to lay the sword down, allowing Qhono to grasp the blade and study it, turning it over and around and peering down the fine edge.

“Without hesitation, Lord Varys.”  Her eyes dropped to the map once more; it was hard to look at him without wanting to touch him and if she touched him she would want to taste him, and then she would want things that would certainly be improper and maybe a bit impractical in a room whose flat surfaces were covered in blades. 

“He would make a fine King.”  Tyrion cleared his throat and she raised her eyes to him.  “If you were to marry, it would certainly make things easier to manage with the Northern Lords.  I’m sure they’ll still be difficult.”  His eyes darted to Jon Snow, then back to her.  “I’m sure you’ve noticed they tend to run a bit…hard-headed.”

Missandei laughed, the sound drawing Grey Worm’s attention as the men finally finished speaking.  Jon Snow stayed where he had been, speaking with Jorah once more before sheathing his sword and finding Gendry.  Grey Worm walked over to Missandei, whispering something that must have been very pleasing indeed considering how her friend’s face flushed.  It gave her a warm, happy feeling, the love between the two of them, and she leaned down. 

“Go, my friend.  I can manage from here, I think.”  Missandei gave her a questioning look, smiling at the look of consternation Daenerys gave her before she finally rose from the table, taking Grey Worm’s arm as they left, wooden door swinging shut behind them.  The Queen turned to Varys and Tyrion.  “I will consider your suggestions, my Lords.  I agree it would be wise but I will not force the issue.  I know all to well how that feels.”

Tyrion just chuckled, while Varys gave her a skeptical look.  “I hardly think the issue would be forced.  To speak plainly, at one point, it sounded as if he were killing you in there.”  Tyrion barely concealed his amusement, a great rush of laughter escaping before he tried to cover it with coughs.

“Quite the opposite, my Lord.”  She kept her own smile under tight control, satisfied with the level of detail she now provided but not interested in providing much more.  Jon Snow was hers.  What they shared was hers.  She was not ashamed of him, and she would never keep him a secret, but she would keep whatever privacy they could maintain until it was no longer possible.  She rose, excusing herself quickly and seeking Gendry and Jon Snow where they stood, Gendry turning a spear on it’s edge to examine the curved tip.

She did not know Gendry well, but he was friendly and seemed very loyal to Jon, traveling with them to assist in forging weapons at Winterfell as they had no blacksmith there currently.  Both men looked up as she approached, and she gave the younger man a brief, friendly smile, then shifted her eyes to Jon’s.

Oh, what a wonderful mistake, as once her eyes met his she could not help but wet her lips, and then he wet his, and then she was shifting on her feet a bit to keep herself from scampering over the table top and pressing herself against him, just for the sweet relief it would bring.  They had done this to themselves, she knew that, and it was the right thing to do.  They could be adults, rulers, not some lust-addled fools who couldn’t keep their hands off each other for more than two seconds.  Yes.  She could do that.

“What is that you’re working on?”  She pointed a fingers to the sheaf of papers at Gendry’s side. 

The young man grinned easily, turning to Jon before looking back at her.  “The King asked if I could examine the weapons your men use, your Grace.  They’ll all need to be outfitted with dragonglass weapons, and the King thought it might be best if we could forge something they were used to using.”  The blacksmith spread the drawings out before her, and she could see some rough calculations along the side of each sketch where Gendry had noted the necessary dimensions.

“The King in the North is most thoughtful.”  She stacked the drawings together once more, handing them back to the young man.  “That would be greatly appreciated.  I fear we will not have much time to spare once we reach Winterfell.”  Gendry took the drawings, looking between the two of them and shifting quietly down to a different table, tension rising as they stopped fighting the impulse and looked directly at each other now.

“A word, Your Grace?”  Jon’s expression was almost blank, and if she hadn’t known him like she did she might have no idea what he was thinking.  He was good at that, keeping his face trained to show nothing, and she wondered if he’d had to do that since he was a boy, not show joy or pain or sadness or grief; she wondered if Jon Snow had trained himself to be invisible, his father’s bastard, hated by his lady wife.

Daenerys knew what that felt like, of course she did.  She had learned quite well how to bury it all down inside, how to take it and shape it and use it as a weapon if she must, but never to let things show, especially things that hurt her.  She had taken all of Viserys’s cruelty and anger and rage, all of his strikes and blows, had allowed herself to be sold because she’d still loved her brother.  She had forced herself to love Drogo, to make him love her, because it had been that choice or death.  Survive or Die.  She had not loved Daario at all, had instead used him as much as he used her.

But what she felt for Jon was so different.  It was everything.  It was like breathing; it was just something she did without thinking.  She had not commanded her heart to love him any more than she commanded her lungs to expand and fill with air.  It was involuntary.  It made her feel full, for the first time, not riddled with pockets of aching emptiness; now she did not feel those holes in her soul, each betrayal and hurt tearing away a bit more.  Now it was as though this fire between them, this raging desire that was shot throughout with affection, and respect; it was as though she were a sword herself, truly a weapon at last, and she was being tempered in the flames, impurities being burned away, leaving only the truest parts of her behind.

She followed Jon Snow after nodding her agreement, his hand reaching back for hers once they left the galley and the warmth of it made her sigh with relief just to feel him once more.  He led her above, to the uppermost deck, where it was just the two of them for now.

“This was a terrible idea.”  Jon’s whisper was amused but she heard the ribbon of truth in it as well. 

She looked around, and parted the edges of the heavy fur cloak, sneaking her arms around him.  “Let me in here you stingy man, and give me a kiss.”

He wrapped his arms around her tightly, laughing as she tipped her head back, the only thing now visible besides her feet.  “You’re awfully bossy.”  She frowned, giving a bit of a pout which made him laugh harder.  “Don’t you make that face.  That’s not fair.”

“It’s very unfair that you won’t give me a kiss, Jon Snow.”  The words rushed out, his hands tightening on her as hers snaked up and around his neck, lips tangling and pressing as Jon brought one hand to the back of her head.  He settled into it, no longer gasping as they had been at first contact, fingers sliding against the tender skin of her neck as his lips pulled at hers, his tongue darting out to taste hers before retreating to let her chase him in return. 

She broke the contact eventually, desperate for air, her cheeks burning in the chilly air.  “Davos is having your things moved to my room, Jon.  I hope that’s all right.”  It struck her that perhaps she shouldn’t have taken his Hand’s word for it, that perhaps she should have asked him first.

But then she looked at his face, and how sweetly he smiled at her, and how his eyes seemed to scream at her that they belonged to each other now, no one else, and he wanted her forever, just as she wanted him.

“I suppose I can find some way to make the best of such accommodations.”  He nodded smartly. 

She exhaled in relief, and he just chuckled lightly, pressing a kiss down to her hair as she buried her face in his chest.  His heart was pounding under her ear, and she pressed a kiss of her own to the cloth and leather covered area.  That part of Jon Snow she would guard most of all.  She would need to talk with him, sooner or later, about what Tyrion and Varys had discussed. 

She would not be able to stop herself from telling him she loved him, she knew this as well.

But she’d meant what she’d said.  She knew that Jon Snow would agree to anything she asked, but she would not ask him to be her King unless she knew he truly wanted it, with her.  Unless he could stomach the thought of keeping a title he’d never wanted to help her build the world she’d dreamed of building.

And all these things were hard to speak about pressed against him as she was, shielded from curious eyes by the furs he wore.  She slid her hands down, slowly, palms smoothing down his back to just above his ass.  She stopped, looking up into his eyes as he tensed his jaw.  “Don’t you do it.”  He looked serious but she could see the jest in his eyes, and it made her happy.  She doubted Jon Snow was playful in much of his life, but there was that side to him, she’d found. 

She slid one hand down the curve of his ass, which she had found to be absolutely perfect, and halted her motion as her palm reached the uppermost part of his thigh.

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”  He shook his head at her, smiling.

Daenerys nodded.  “You’re right.  Why would you ever tell anyone where you are ticklish, Jon Snow?” She wiggled her fingers with that and his whole body arched away from her as he tried to escape her touch.

“I didn’t think you’d use it against me.”  He tried to sound offended but it was a hard sell when he spoke between kisses he was pressing across her face.

“Only in a good way, Jon Snow.  Why don’t we go to *our* room, and I’ll show you all my ticklish spots.”  She leaned against him, still covered in his furs as she rose on tiptoe to whisper in his ear.  “You’ll be pleased to know they all require me to be completely naked.”

He was a man possessed in an instant, sweeping her out of his furs and into his arms like he was holding a babe, striding towards the stairs that led below deck and gruffly declaring, “Then there’s no time to lose.”


	5. Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belonging is something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned that I am writing this on my phone during a 5 hour car drive for a last-minute spring break trip, so updates will come down to my phone signal I guess :)

For every morning that Jon had woken up beside Daenerys, he had followed the same ritual.  

He opened his eyes, and saw her face; sometimes she was already awake, watching him with soft eyes and smiling gently as she saw his eyes focus on her.  Sometimes she slept on, her features relaxed and peaceful, pushing herself closer to him as he shifted to study her more fully.

No matter which state he found her in, he would shut his eyes tightly, convinced this was all some hallucination his heart had dreamed up for him.  Perhaps he had never returned from death at Castle Black, or perhaps he had never found the will to pull himself from that icy watery grave that had nearly claimed his life once more.  Perhaps this dream of her, this imagining of them together was just what lay beyond life, somewhere his soul could claim all the things he’d wanted so desperately while he’d lived.

Jon would open his eyes again and find her still there, this woman who had been nothing that he expected, who had created something in him that made him feel desperately alive and overwhelmingly whole.  

He was in a new, unexplored land with her, where he did not have to hide the things he wanted and he did not have to feel selfish and ashamed, because she wanted what he did.  She wanted him just as much as he wanted her and she cared nothing at all about him being a bastard; she scoffed and gave him narrow-eyed, serious looks the few times he’d mentioned it, asking if he thought her any less a Queen because she had grown up in exile, because she and her brother had scrounged for scraps in the street and slept on rooftops and empty buildings, because she was the last living vestige of a dead House that was technically only a Queen to those who’d crossed the Narrow Sea with her?

And no, of course not, if anything it made him all the more proud of who and what she was.  She had earned his pledge to her because she chose her people over herself.  Daenerys Targaryen hadn’t had anyone to protect her, but instead letting her life destroy her she had let it guide her.  She had made it her mission to protect those who could not help themselves.  She was a true Queen, and she had set aside her war for the Iron Throne to commit to Jon’s cause, the war for the Living.  And Jon would tell her those things; whispers between them while limbs were lazy with sleep of everything he saw in her.  She would smile with shining eyes and kiss him then, and ask why he thought she would find anything different in him.

She would tell Jon things that she saw in him, things that perhaps he was starting to believe, because she was not in the habit of lying.  Daenerys dealt in truth, just as he did, and it was one of the things he respected the most about her.  When the Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms told Jon that she thought he was honorable and just and brave, he wanted to deny it.  It was habit, borne of years of making sure he did no better than Ned Stark’s trueborn children at any lesson or training exercise.  Jon had clipped his own wings, had held himself back from his own potential because it hadn’t mattered to him, not really.  He’d had a far better life than most bastards could expect, and he was grateful for that; he’d asked for nothing more.

Daenerys would whisper to him that he was the only real King she had ever known; that they had both been chosen by their people to lead, not based on name but on action.  She whispered to him that his war was her war as well, and that they would fight together.  He was not alone, she told him.  

She made him laugh, which seemed to surprise her the first time he’d done so.  People always thought Jon was dour and moody, sullen and stoic, and he was at times.  But his siblings, his friends, Davos; with them he let his guard down, with them he could joke and laugh at times.  

But she had a streak of humor in her that  had survived terrible things, things that Jon could only touch on in his mind, because when he remembered what she had told him that first day, striding down from that stony throne with a voice firm in conviction, and eyes that said she’d taken quite enough shit from others in her life, thank you, and she would not be taking any shit from the likes of him; when he thought even for a second on her being sold and chained and raped and defiled...in those small moments he was glad fate had not given him such powerful weapons as dragons, because it filled him with a dark, black rage that would have driven him to burn anyone and anything that had ever harmed her, with no regret in his heart.

She had survived, and he had been ressurected, and Jon could only assume that whatever it was that had brought them together had finally decided, at least in Jon’s case, to give him something to live for.  Maybe she had needed the same, because together they were different than they had been alone.  Together they fit, they balanced each other, and for whatever fear this created in Jon it was outweighed by the sense that this was it, for him.  She was what he’d always been meant to find, and he was the same for her, and whatever they must do now was possible because of the other.  Together he thought they might just claim victory after all.

Jon let his eyes skim her face, that lovely face that merely hinted at the real beauty inside her.  His fingertips skimmed the angle of her cheek, her smooth skin warm and soft as she shifted into his caress in her sleep.  He had to kiss her, now, light feathery brushes against her closed eyelids, the tip of her nose, the soft pillowy lips that had done wondrous things to him, down along the line of her jaw and the soft column of her neck.

It was as he reached her collarbone, pressing gentle kisses along the delicate length, that he felt her chest rise and fall quickly beneath him, her hands coming up to gently thread into his hair.  He stopped, staying where he was but tilting his chin up to look upon her face.  

She was staring at him, purple eyes sleepy but serious as she whispered, “Don’t stop now, Jon Snow.”  She quirked a grin at him as he laughed against her skin, arching her back as she tugged a bit at his head, trying to guide his mouth to where she truly desired it.  Jon resisted, his tongue lazily tracing a wet line between her breasts as she squirmed under him.  

Jon especially enjoyed these moments, where he could tease her as she did him, where she let him draw out her pleasure and do as he wished, watching him until desire drove her to tossing her head about, grasping at him desperately as he made her come apart for him, because of him.

Jon shifted over, stripping the coverings from her completely and kneeling between creamy, silky thighs that bent and parted immediately for him.  He brought his hands, calloused from years of wielding a blade, slowly up either side of her rib cage to sweep his thumbs against the sensitive skin under the full curves of her breasts.  That was enough to bring a quiet whimper from her throat,  back arching as he finally brought his questing mouth to the stiff, rosy peaks that strained upwards in the cool morning air.  

Daenerys let out a slow moan, whispering his name helplessly as he brought one hard bud between his lips, sucking gently before taking her fully into his mouth, tongue laving her skin then pulling gently with his teeth, his heart racing as she held his head tightly against her.

He made her as slick as his mouth would allow before changing sides, her moans growing louder as her hips shifted below him, begging him to fill her, to bring them together once more.  And he would.

But not yet.

Now his fingers plucked and pulled and slid against one hard peak as his teeth and tongue toyed with the other, pinching lightly every so often so he could hear her gasp and roll her hips up into him mindlessly.

The King in the North rolled his eyes up to her lazily, his mouth and fingers working her as he watched her face.  She was gloriously open with him, when they were alone, and she made no effort to hide what he did to her, how he made her feel.  She gazed down at him now, lips parted and wet, her eyelids heavy with desire as she watched his pleasure her and tease her.  She bit her lip as he increased his pressure, his mouth suckling her as if he were a babe, and she finally closed her eyes as she gave a strangled cry and pushed her head deeper into the pillows.

Jon thought perhaps he’d teased her enough; her thighs were gripping him tightly as he knelt before her still, and he licked a slow wet trail down her stomach to the sweet pink folds of her center, sliding her legs apart to crouch before her, grinning proudly at how swollen and flushed he’d made her, how wet and ready she was for him.  

He trailed one finger around her, a light teasing touch from her entrance to that sensitive bud above that he’d already committed hours of attention to, and he circled it gently with the tip of his finger, pressure on first one side and then the other, her hips arching up with each pass.  

“Jon!”  Her voice was rough, desperate, needy for the release he teased her with, but she was his Queen and he would give her what she wanted.  He would give her anything she wanted forever, until he drew breath no more.

Jon pulled his head back, waiting until her eyes peered down at his lack of movement, and he whispered back to her the words she’d set him aflame with some nights ago.  “Watch.”  

Daenerys smiled, eyes locked onto his as she nodded once, her hands finding their way into his hair once more as she guided his mouth back to her, hips rising, entreating him to taste her.

Her smile was short-lived, mouth parting in a long, low groan as he firmly licked her from core to clit, tongue flicking at her apex to tease the tender nub there.  The taste of her was heady and addicting to him, sweet and slightly salty and he savored it in his tongue.  He wanted to thrust his tongue inside of her, to chase that flavor that was uniquely hers to the source, but he wanted her to taste all of her more, his tongue smoothing along the pink wet skin before him, lips drawing her flesh into his mouth only to release it to seek more of her.  

Jon brought a hand up to tease a nipple once more, now rolling and pulling at but more roughly as her hips began circling frantically beneath him.  She was still watching, this rarely obedient Queen, and he drank in the sight of her like this, spread before him, mindless with want, giving herself to him so intimately.

He wanted to see her come, wanted to taste it on his tongue, and so he wrapped his lips gently around her clit, suckling gently at first as he slid his tongue over it, his name escaping in wails now as she drew closer to the release he was guiding her to.

Jon the pink peak between his fingers one last pinch, suckling in one hard pull against her sensitive bud and thrusting two fingers into her suddenly, her hands scrabbling at his head and shoulders as she cried out, his fingers curving and stroking the place he’d found with his cock, driving into her.  She began to arch sharply, a moan growing and becoming a loud wail as her hips shuddered and bucked, those walls that gripped his fingers like a vise clenching and releasing in a rhythm that was hers alone.  He eased off the pressure of his mouth to lick gently along the flushed lips of her, wetness coating his fingers and mouth as the tremors finally subsided.

He pulled his fingers from the hot, wet clasp of her, licking the taste of her from his fingers as she watched, her eyes slipping shut and a small whimper creeping out.  Daenerys reached an arm down for him, turning on her side as she pulled him up behind her, molding herself against him until his cock was pressed into the curve of her ass.  She brought her leg up, hooking her ankle and calf around his thigh, then reached down to grasp him in her hand, guiding him into her as he hissed out a breath. 

“Oh, Dany.  You feel so fucking good.”  He sounded like he was praying, almost, and maybe he was, each word drawn long and low from deep in his chest.  Perhaps he was, he thought, as she reached arm back and drew his head to her neck, thrusting back against him more fervently as he licked and sucked the skin of her throat.

”You are mine, Jon.  Mine.”  Her voice was as rough as his, her hips meeting his thrust for thrust now, and he slid his finger in tight circles against her clit as he felt release pooling inside, balls tightening and cock aching as he moaned a deep “Yes” against her neck.

”I belong to you, Jon.  No one else.  Just you.”  She was gasping as she ground herself against his hand, tightening around his cock so sweetly he could weep from the pleasure of it, from the words she panted to him as he drove himself inside her.

”You are mine.”  He growled the words against her throat, nipping at the name of her neck as she cried out, rippling around him, her walls milking his release from him effortlessly.  He gave a cry of his own, his hips still thrusting erratically as he came inside her with great shuddering gasps that made sensation streak up his spine, toes curling from the force of it.

Daenerys slid him from her gently as the last of her own release subsided, head laying close to his as her fingers danced along his jaw and down to his shoulders.

Jon pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, whispering, “Hang on.”  He rose, grabbing the discarded tangle of blankets and spreading them back over her, climbing in beside her and gathering her to him as she giggled.

”So thoughtful, Jon Snow.”  She smoothed her hand down his neck, his pulse still jumping under her palm.  “It’s a blessing we are sharing quarters, else I might be faced with the daunting task of picking up my own blankets.”

Jon chuckled, his own hand sweeping up to cup the side of her face, thumb sliding slowly across her cheekbone.  “I’m sorry about that.  What I said.”  She looked confused, amethyst eyes so close to his he could see the detail of each iris.  “You asked me not to call you that but I keep forgetting.”

”Jon.”  He felt her whisper against his lips as she brought their faces closer still.  “I like the way it sounds when you say it.”  Her eyes told him that was the truth, and something eased in him then; it was a name that fit her, especially when it was just the two of them.

Daenerys hugged him to her then, rolling onto her back and bringing his head to her chest.  He listened to her heart beat, strong and reassuring beneath his ear, and felt her hand sweep along his hair.

”We’ll need to make an appearance soon.”  Jon groaned, knowing she was right but loathe to leave the comfort of her like this.  “At least to prove you weren’t in here trying to kill me.”

Jon’s head shot up, turning to face her as he gasped.  “What?!”  

Daenerys did not answer, just shook her head and laughed, loudly and happily, pulling him back to her where he belonged as the room filled with the sound of her joy.


	6. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Jon and Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cell service is crazy spotty. I absolutely savor every single comment and review, and I can’t thank you enough for reading and letting me know what you thought as we journey on the Love Boat together :). Still a lot of ground to cover!

“I want to tell you a story, Jon.”  Daenerys stood leaning against a deck rail, the afternoon sun warming her face as she looked out across the waves.  “But I’m afraid of what you will think of me if I tell it.”

She looked at him, no furs today with the sky cloudless, all his other Northern trappings in place.  They were alone, at least for now.  Davos had been more than happy to help when she’d asked for a bit of privacy for herself and Jon.  And this was not a tale she would tell in the room they shared, in the bed they shared.  

Daenerys needed him to know.  She wanted him to know all of her, everything, even the painful parts that she’d sworn not to touch upon ever again; the parts of her past that were awful, when she’d wanted to die, when she’d become stronger than she’d imagined she could be.  

She was surprised, at first, by this desire to share those things with him.  Jon had some idea of her past, as she’d given him  an earful when he’d stood there so stubbornly in her throne room, refusing to bend the knee.  It had not been on her mind to give specifics.

But she loved Jon Snow.  She wanted to marry him.  And when she finally told him that she loved him she wanted him to know that he was worthy of her.  Daenerys knew what lingered in his thoughts; Tyrion had informed her quite thoroughly of the view and treatment of bastards in Westeros.  Jon was a King chosen by the North, but sometimes he seemed as though even that wasn’t something he thought deserved, that he had earned.

So she would tell him of Viserys.  She would tell him of that first marriage of hers, and perhaps he would see how so very different he was; How she had come to trust him and his honest heart as she had no other.  

Jon studied her, brow furrowed as he considered what she said.  “I would never think less of you for surviving, Daenerys.  Ever.”  He leaned fully against the rail beside her now, both of them facing the sea as the breeze whipped around them.  “I’ve done plenty of things I wasn’t proud of, things I hated, but they were necessary.  To survive.”  She felt a hand on her cheek, and turned to see him looking at her with eyes full of understanding.  

Daenerys nodded slightly, her hand covering his and squeezing before she pulled away to stare at the water again.

”My brother, Viserys.  He was the only family I had, for so long, and for that I loved him.”  She watched the waves foaming, churning as they sailed past.  “I do not know if he inherited my father’s madness, or if all the years in exile created his cruelty and rage on their own.  He hurt me for years.  But he was my brother, so I loved him anyway.  He was all I had.”  Her voice broke a bit, and she glanced at Jon who was facing her, not the sea, his face blank, just listening.

”But Viserys grew desperate to reclaim the throne, his birthright.  We had no gold, no support...”. Daenerys shuddered a bit, at what she must reveal next.  “But he found a way.  He realized he did have something of value, something he could exchange for an army of Dothraki horselords, forty-thousand in number led by the strongest Khal in ages.” She gripped the rail tightly, knuckles turning white, long-buried anger rising to the surface.

She turned her eyes to Jon.  “He realized he could trade his sister, still a maiden, barely 16.”  The King in the North’s handsome face hardened, mouth a grim line.  “I was so frightened.  I begged him not to make me do this.  I knew I had no choice, nowhere else to go, no one else in the world.”  She could not look at him, now, not for this.

”My brother told me that the Khal, his horselords, their horses...he would let all of them have me if it meant he got his throne.”  Her eyes were shut, that overwhelming fear that had taken her completely when her brother had uttered that to her leaving her a bit breathless.  And so she did not see him leave the railing, she only felt him behind her, arms coming around her and his warm hands coming to rest atop hers.  

It was what she needed; that visceral reminder that she was long past the time when these things had hurt her.  She let her thumb slip along his, stroking slowly, and collected herself enough to resume her story.

”He made me marry him, Khal Drogo. He knew my new husband raped me every night; I cried myself to sleep every night, and each day I was one day closer to ending my own life.”  She leaned her head back slightly, into reassuring feel of his shoulder behind her.  “My brother never cared for me at all.  Viserys cared only for himself.  I realized no one was going to save me, Jon.  I would have to save myself.  I could save myself or die.”

Jon Snow’s hands had been tightening on hers as she spoke, to the point that he must have realized what he was doing, and he laced his fingers through hers instead, saying nothing, just letting her speak.  

“Viserys used to think he was the dragon, but he was wrong.  It was me all along, and where I was strong he was weak.  Where I chose kindness he was cruel.  And he brought his own death upon him.  I was not sad when my brother died.  By then I had learned that while I could not wield a sword, I could wield other weapons.  I learned that I could make my husband love me, if I chose to.  And so I did what I had to, and I made him be gentler with me.  I made him love me, in a fashion.”  Daenerys closed her eyes once more, just feeling him around her, feeling the wind sweep her hair about and his hands holding hers.  

“I suppose, by the time he died, I had grown to love him.  Or I thought I had, though now I know it was something borne out of fear and desperation, because if I could not then I would not continue living.”  She felt him press his lips to her hair, smiling a little despite the words she spoke.  Now she knew that love was this, with Jon Snow, and it didn’t have to tear her apart to make her earn it; it didn’t have to hurt her and bend her and try to break her.  Love, she was learning, could make her feel as though anything were possible if they were together.

”The witch who killed him, who killed the babe I carried...I burned her alive in his funeral pyre.  And I placed three dragon eggs in those flames, Jon.  Eggs I had received as a wedding present, petrified, never to hatch.”  She raised their joined hands, now, kissing his fingers where they peeked between hers.  Now she whispered, wondering if he knew this part of her story, if the impossibility of the tale had reached the shores of Westeros before he came to Dragonstone. “I walked into those flames that night, though they all thought I was mad, the Dothraki, Ser Jorah.  And in the morning, there I was amongst the ashes, three small dragons clinging to me, my clothes burned away, my skin untouched.  Unburnt.  The girl that I had been died in that fire.  The Queen, though, she was born.”

She relaxed back against his chest now, hesitant to see his face, to see if she was sullied to him now, dirtied by what she’d been forced to do, or if he thought her a liar; But those were her own doubts, her own fears, not his.  Jon Snow gently turned her, hands cupping her jaw, eyes searching her face.

”You’ve seen my scars, Dany.  You know what they mean.”  

She nodded.  She did know, she had known the first time she’d seen them. She had known that Jon Snow died.  But here he stood, alive and real and solid.  That was what she did not understand, but perhaps he was ready to tell her.

It was Jon Snow who looked away now,  out at the horizon, eyes lost and a bit afraid.  “I was dead.  Davos says for a few days, while a Priestess of the Lord of Light performed whatever magic she claims to control.  I don’t know if that’s true.  Maybe it was her, maybe it was the Lord of Light, maybe it was the Old Gods.”  

Now he looked back at her, eyes uneasy as she raised her hands, tracing fingers across the leather that hid those scars from her sight.  “My brothers in the Night’s Watch killed me.  That’s what I know.  They took turns stabbing me.  I died there in the snow.  The wildings beyond the Wall had been our enemies for centuries.”  Jon let out a ragged exhale, pain in his voice as he finally shared what Davos had hinted at, this thing that couldn’t be possible but was.  “I brought them south, because if I didn’t they would die.  How could I?  They’re just people, Dany.  They didn’t deserve certain death at the hands of the Night King because they were born on the wrong side of that fucking Wall.  They called me a traitor for it.  They murdered me for it.”

Daenerys was finding it hard to breathe and she wondered if it had been the same, for him, this dark consuming anger building in her for those who had killed him for the good in his heart.  She hoped, she prayed to any Gods that could hear that they were dead.  They should pray as well, she thought, because should she find herself before any of them she would make sure that day was their last.  

“It doesn’t matter.  Any of it.”  He bit the words out, his face leaning in to her as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her as if she were the only thing anchoring him to life.  She did the same, because maybe she was, now, and she was not letting him go.  “I don’t care what you had to do, Dany, to be here, with me, right now.”  He drew back enough to hold her face between his hands, angling it back so they were eye to eye, his gaze intense.

”No one has ever come for me, either.  I’ve always had to save myself.”  She felt tears gather; she heard the loneliness in his voice, of having no one who cared for you but yourself.  No one you could trust but yourself.  She had ached with the same for far too long.

”You’re the only one who ever has.”  His voice was a whisper, but the wonder in it, the amazement in his eyes that she would come for him, that a desperate raven in his darkest hour would bring the Dragon Queen to his rescue; how little he had been loved, how shameful for all those who’d made him think he was any less wonderful than she thought he was.

”Then you came back, Jon.  I knew you would.  I waited, even when they all said we should go, that you were gone.”  Dark hours and dark thoughts, those horrible hours where she’d been desperate.  When she’d realized she loved him and she’d left him behind.  “I will always come for you, Jon.  I will not be without you.”

Jon Snow’s eyes were so dark, then, even in that afternoon sun, his chest heaving once or twice before he brought his mouth to hers, finally, her eyes closing at the softness of his lips and the rasp of hair against her, humming her pleasure as he delved into her mouth with abandon.  His tongue was hot, almost liquid as it danced against hers.  She could do this forever, she thought, for kissing Jon Snow was a wonder greater than any she’d ever had.

He drew back, eyes boring into hers when she finally opened them, voice low and firm.  “I will not be parted from you, Daenerys Stormborn.”  

She brought her hands up to his cheeks, as his were upon hers still, and smiled.  I love you, she thought, and it was there in his eyes as well.

”No, you won’t.  I will follow you to the end of every Realm there is if I must, Jon Snow.”  Now she grinned.  “Who else could look so dashing fetching my blankets?”

 


	7. Ravens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a week at sea, duty calls. And smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 23 days and counting to get a baby in there! Thanks for sticking with this so far; we’ll be seeing lots of different discussions and interactions but it’s 30 freaking days so, you know, gotta pace myself!

The galley of the ship had become something of an unofficial war room, as it was the only space large enough to accommodate the combined retinues of the King and Queen, though Jon wasn’t sure he’d call himself, Davos, and Gendry anything close to a retinue.  The Northmen who’d come to Dragonstone with him what seemed like ages ago were aboard the ship he’d sailed on to treat with Daenerys.  

Everyone else aboard ship with him travelled with the Queen, but he’d grown to know them all somewhat.  Grey Worm, the Unsullied captain, was someone whose company he’d found he enjoyed; the reserved man did not talk endlessly as Tyrion did, but would ask measured questions that Jon found he did not mind answering.  

He’d spent some hours the prior evening asking Grey Worm about the Unsullied; how they fought, what weapons they preferred, what formations they were accustomed to.  In return he’d described what conditions Grey Worm could expect in the North, showing him on the cloth map of Westeros now pinned to the galley wall where Jon suspected they might face the Night King’s Army.  Jon had suggested ways they might add to the leather armor the Unsullied preferred to prevent frostbite and hypothermia, knowing these forces had not faced such cold before.

Grey Worm fallen silent then, and had looked at Jon for some time as he made notes to discuss with Davos.

”Does the King in the North know how this one came to serve the Queen?”  The quiet man had phrased it as a question, but Jon saw it for what it was: an offer, to share something with him about Dany, another piece of the greater whole of her.

So Jon had shaken his head in the negative, and the slim man had risen, getting a pitcher of wine and two battered copper cups, seating himself once more in the wooden bench flanking the table and pouring them each a drink.

”Unsullied are the slave armies of Astapor.  This one was taken from his family very young; this is the way of the masters.  We are cut so we will want no more than to serve our masters.  We train as small boys from morning to night, until we master shortsword and shield and spear.  Unsullied do not fear death.  Unsullied are trained not to feel.  Only one of four will survive to see battle.” Grey Worm had paused to take a drink, and Jon had done the same, his mouth dry at the way the man spoke so matter-of-factly of such terrible treatment visited on him and his fellow Unsullied.

Grey Worm had watched Jon for a moment before he continued, a small upturn of his lips suggesting the man could smile after all.  “Missandei has told this one that the King has a good heart, like Daenerys Stormborn.  The Queen mourned what was done to The Unsullied.  And she set Grey Worm free.  She set all Unsullied free that day.”

The man took another drink, smiling growing a bit, now with a knowing gleam in his eyes.  “The masters made a mistake, King in the North.  They saw a young Queen of great beauty and thought she had no mind.  They paid for their mistake.”  Jon couldn’t help but chuckle.  Underestimating the Mother of Dragons was the province of fools.

”The masters thought to give her Unsullied for her dragon, still small then. They did not know she spoke Valyrian.  That is how Missandei came to her as well, to translate.  They did not know it was her mother tongue until the deal was done.”  There had been something a bit vengeful on Grey Worm’s face, something Jon thought justified, and he felt nothing but pride for her, his Dany, stronger than all of them, as the man before him continued.

”Daenerys Stormborn took the master’s whip, and ordered the Unsullied to kill the masters and slavers, any with a whip in their hand.  She ordered Unsullied to strike the chains from any slave seen, to spare any children.”  Now Grey Worm sat up straight, staring right into Jon’s eyes, brown on slate.  “After the fighting, she rode through rows of Unsullied.  She told us we were free.  The Unsullied were slaves no more.  This one could have left, started his own life, with no fear of death.  She asked would we fight for her, as free men?”  Grey Worm’s voice had dropped then, quiet in the silence of the galley.  “This one serves because he chooses, because Daenerys Stormborn chose Unsullied first.  This one will fight until his death for the Queen.”

Jon could do nothing but nod.  What fools they were, he’d thought, these Westerosi Lords who spread such lies and defamation about a woman whose heart was so full of kindness.

”The King is the same, this one thinks.  Unsullied will fight with the armies of the North not because the King seeks power.  You seek to save your people.  All people.  This one saw what we face.  And Daenerys Stormborn battles from the air.”  Grey Worm had seen that both their cups were empty and refilled them, raising his in a toast then as Jon did the same.  “This one will be honored to share the battlefield with the King who fights for the living.”  

The two had remained a bit longer, until Dany had come seeking him trailed by Missandei, smiling softly at him as she saw the two men together and leading him back to the chambers they shared, eyes warm and fingers working on his leathers the minute the door had closed.

—————-

Now, as morning light streamed through the galley windows, there was work to be done.  Jon supposed Davos and Tyrion had given them as much leeway as they could, but he knew there were ravens to be reviewed, strategies to be decided upon, and he could not spend every day and night losing himself in everything there was to be had with the lovely girl with silver hair and violet eyes; the powerful Queen who commanded dragons and armies.

Davos, Tyrion and Varys were already huddled together at a table, a pile of scrolls strewn about the wooden surface, when the King and Queen appeared to meet with them.  Jon spied Gendry a table away, the Queen’s bloodrider Qhono and Jorah Mormont examine Gendry’s dream plans to replicate the Dothraki weapons.  To Jon’s surprise the Hound was seated in the corner, a rare appearance from the man, and he gave a grunt and tip of his chin to Jon before turning his eyes back to his drink.

Grey Worm and Missandei were breaking their fast at a table near the window, speaking quietly and almost rising as one before Daenerys waved them off, gesturing for them to stay as they were.

Their advisors rose, waiting for Daenerys then Jon to seat themselves, Jon choosing to sit across from her as he’d found she had a tendency to let her hands wander wickedly when the others began pointless arguments amongst themselves and it was torturous to spend so much time achingly hard and having to pretend he wasn’t completely distracted.  She smirked at him across the table as he took a seat, whispering across to him as the others settled back in, “Surely you don’t think that will stop me, Jon Snow.”

Jon just shook his head in consternation; no, he supposed it would not, but in truth he didn’t care.  She was completely open in her affection for him, and that was something he realized he’d never expected for himself, but he hungered for it, all of it, all that she wanted to give him of herself.  Her love, maybe, possibly.

Tyrion cleared his throat, eyes darting between them to he sure he had their attention before he spoke.  “There are a few issues we must address before we move on to planning our strategy once we arrive at Winterfell.”  Tyrion looked to Davos, then, who gestures to the inbound scrolls that lay before the smuggler.

”I’ve been catching up on the news from your banners and your sister in my newly found leisure time, Your Grace.”  He raised one scroll.  “Most of these arrived just before we sailed from Dragonstone, but this one in particular I thought you might find interesting.  Petyr Baelish is dead.”  Jon straightened, relief chasing through him followed by confusion.  

“How?”

Davos grimaced.  “Lady Sansa found him guilty on the charges of the murder of Lysa Arryn, the conspiracy to murder Jon Arryn,” Davos gave a small exhale before continuing, “and conspiring with Cersei and Joffrey Lannister to falsely accuse and execute Lord Eddard Stark on charges of treason.  She sentenced him to death.”

The table was silent as Jon absorbed the news.  He wished more than anything that he’d been there to watch that smug fucker take his last breath.  “Who carried out the order?”

Davos looked back at the scroll, eyes scanning.  “Your sister, Arya Stark.  Says she slit his throat in the Great Hall with Littlefinger’s own dagger, with Yohn Royce and the Knights of the Vale bearing witness.”  

Before Jon could even think a response Gendry’s voice carried over to them, shocked and amazed.  “Arya?  She’s alive?”  The young blacksmith left his seat and approached the group, taking a seat at Jon’s wordless nod.

”How do you know Arya?”

Gendry swallowed.  “When the Goldcloaks came hunting for me Master Mott sent me with Yoren.  I was bound for the Night’s Watch.”  His eyes raised to Jon’s.  “Arya was there when your father was killed.  Yoren was going to hide her with us, all those bound for the Wall, to take her home to Winterfell.  She’d cut her hair, y’see, disguised herself as a boy.  Didn’t know who she was ‘til later.  Brave little shit, waving that sword of hers around.”  Gendry gave a small laugh, eyes widening in realization.  He pointed at Jon.  “You were the brother who gave it to her, weren’t you?  That sword, Needle?”

Jon nodded, coincidence blending with some impending sense of destiny that they were all here together.  Gendry had known Arya, had travelled with her before finding himself with Davos then Jon himself.  “Right before we all left home.  That was the last time I saw her, when I gave her that sword.”  He looked across at Daenerys, who was looking at him with a wistful expression before her eyes glanced up and above Jon’s shoulder.

A gruff voice sounded from behind Jon, now.  “That was you, eh?  Well you’ll be glad to know she learnt how to fucking use that tiny thing, though when I asked her to finish me off with it she left me there to die instead.”  The Hound joined them now, some space between he and Jon as he sat.  “Fucking savage little wolf, she is.”  Clegane smiled, an eerie sight indeed.  “Brienne of Fucking Tarth says she’s learned more than that.  Said the only one needing protection is that in that gets in Arya Stark’s way.”

Something rolled up Jon’s spine, a feeling that wound through his heart and pulsed through his blood.  Pride.  That’s what it was.  Arya had survived and she’d made use of his last gift to her from the sound of it.  “Good.”  Jon’s voice was gruff and clipped.  They’d been a lot alike, different from the others, and that she had made it, that she was home as well waiting for his return was something that made him grateful beyond measure.

Davos tapped on the table, asking Jon’s attention once more as he raised another scroll.  “See if you can make sense of this, then.  Bran writes ‘Nymeria seen at the Twins.  The sheep face Justice and bleed for their crimes.’  Can’t say I understand that one.”

Varys spoke before Jon could reply.  “If I may?”  The King nodded, and Daenerys gave her assent as well.  “My little birds report that House Frey is no more.  At least not the men.”  The eunuch’s voice was smooth as always but there was a puzzled note to it.  Jon felt his brows climb; Walder Frey was something he’d planned on having to deal with, the least of which being that he’d had Edmure Tully as a hostage and they would not regain control of the Riverlands without a Tully at Riverrun.

”Walder’s young wife reports a most interesting tale; a feast for all those who’d participated in the Red Wedding, who’d helped kill Robb Stark and Catelyn Stark.  She says Walder poisoned them all.  But then, when the men were dead, he pulled off his face.”  Varys shuddered but continued.  “It was a girl, dark of hair, and Lady Frey reports she was told ‘Tell any who ask what happened here that The North Remembers.  Tell them Winter came for House Frey.’  It would seem Arya Stark has been a busy girl.”

Jon swept a hand down his face, breathing out his sister’s name, only glancing beside him as the Hound started laughing.  Full laughter, from his belly, almost painfully rough.  It was as if he hadn’t laughed like that in his life.  He must have realized they were all staring at him, agape, because the burned man quieted, pounding his fist on the table then.  “Oh, she’s doing it.  Her fucking list.”  He looked at Jon.  “That sister of yours, she’s got a list.  All the people she’s going to kill, people that harmed her or her family.”  The man’s eyes grew disgusted.  “She was there that night, when her brother was killed, when her mother was killed.  Frey’s been on her list for a long time.”

Jon thought he’d reached his limit on the horror he felt for his family.  For what has been done to those who no longer lived, and for those who had survived.  For Bran, for Sansa.  But that Arya had seen their father’s death, and Robb’s, and her mother’s.  It was more than any person should endure, in any lifetime.  He hung his head slightly, the weight of all this pressing down on him; another Stark who’d grown up far too fast.

Then he felt something; a gentle slide against his calf, and he looked up to find Dany watching him with thoughtful eyes. She spoke, addressing them all, but her gaze remained on him.

”There is a place in Braavos where such an art can be learned.  The home of those who serve the Many-Faced God, the God of Death.”  Jon heard Varys let out a gasp.  “They are known as the Faceless Men.  It is said they are called such because they may claim the faces of those they kill.  They can become anyone.”  He was surprised to see she did not look disturbed or worried, she did not seem troubled at the idea that his sister may have learned such things.  Jon was not sure that he was, either.  Arya had single-handedly done what Jon would have raised an army to accomplish.  How many might have died if he’d done so instead, delivered the justice House Frey had undoubtedly earned through more traditional means?

Now Tyrion spoke, and Jon reluctantly tore his eyes away from the Queen.  He struggled to focus on the man, though, when he felt another caress against his leg, sliding up along his calf to his knee then back down.  “Is this something that should be of concern regarding the Queen’s safety once we arrive?”

It was Dany who responded first, no hesitation at all as she scoffed at Tyrion. “Jon Snow, is your little warrior sister going to kill me?”  

Laughter bubbled up, both at her time and the look on Tyrion’s face.  “No, I don’t think so.  But she’s probably going to give you no peace ‘til you let her see your dragons.”  Her amethyst eyes danced and she laughed as well, still amused as Tyrion sighed and continued.

”Be that as it may, if House Frey is no more, then we must assume the Tullys will retake Riverrun if they have not already.  Yohn Royce and the Vale will remain faithful to House Stark as well, I presume?”  The Queen’s Hand addressed Jon now, but kept glancing at Daenerys who had turned to study the map.

Jon tipped his head in consideration.  “Yes, I believe so.  If not for me then for Sansa and Bran and Arya.”

Tyrion walked over to the map now, sticking silver pins into both the Riverlands and the Vale.  “My Queen, the matter we spoke of becomes all the more important now.” 

She did not let him get another word out before she rushed to speak.  “I said I will speak to the King in the North of it and I will.  Today.”

Tyrion nodded, looking appeased, and Jon was suddenly consumed with curiosity as Daenerys turned, hands twisting together a bit as she faced him.  “Later.”  Her whisper was quiet, almost nervous, but he gave her a reassuring smile, hoping they could escape this meeting before her teasing foot made remaining still an impossibility.

————-

It was evening before he was alone with her again, an endless litany of annoyances taking up most of the day, but by the time the sun had set Missandei had beckoned Jon to follow her, leading him to a door not far from the room he shared with the Queen.

He opened the door slowly, heart stuttering at the picture before him; Daenerys, reading a volume propped up in her lap, hair loosely gathered back as it had been those first few days together, face glowing warmly in the candlelight that flickered in the room, upright but reclining on a low chaise pushed against the wall.  Jon never realized until he was apart from her how accustomed he had become to her, to having her with him.  

But when he next saw her his eyes devoured every inch of her, burning her into his memory once more, thirsty for every detail; the way she would twirl a long curl around her finger when she was thinking, or the way her eyes smiled before her lips when she saw him before her.  If Jon were a more poetic sort perhaps he could compose entire books to her lips alone, but he was not.  He was a man of action, not words, and so in every circumstance that brought his lips to hers he said what his hands would never know how to write.

And she smiled now, rising to take his hands and pull him to her after he’d pushed the door closed, a silky blue gown that flowed like water over her skin covering the wonders that he knew lay beneath.  Jon exhaled in relief as she pressed herself against him, her arms going up around his neck and her head tilting back to smile at him.

”Has the Queen been hiding?”  He dipped his head to kiss her, feeling her smile against him as he pressed his lips to hers, just a brief touch before he pulled away.

”Perhaps I just wanted you to come find me, Jon Snow.”  Her voice was little more than a purr, a promising sound that made desire flare to life in him, though if he were honest, where she was concerned it was never far from the surface.  

Daenerys drew him over to where she’d been seated, urging him with her hands to sit, only to have her climb astride him once he was settled, arms and legs molding around him as she buried her head in his neck.  Jon felt her breathe deeply, wrapping his arms around her in return, letting his fingers slide over the slick fabric covering her back.  He let his eyes wander when she made no sign of moving, just pressing herself into him, relaxing against him.  It was a rather small room, he thought, taking in to adjoining walls lined with books from floor to ceiling, the other two sparse and wooden save for the door he’d entered and a few burning candles.

Jon closed his eyes, thumbs tracing circles on the Queen’s back, turning his head to press his nose into her hair, thinking nothing would be finer than to stay like this for all his days.

Finally she raised her head, neck arching to press a kiss under his jaw as she sat back up, her eyes jumping to the candle burning merrily on the table beside them then back to his.

”Do you want to see something amazing, Jon Snow?”  Her question ended in a giggle as he slid his hands to where he guessed this flimsy gown might unfasten.  

“I have to say, I approve of where this is going, Your Grace.”  She laughed once more, swatting away his hands as she climbed from his body to kneel before the low table, eyes on him as she held her hand flat, palm-down, just above the flickering flame.

”Don’t worry.”  Her whisper came just seconds before she lowered her hand, relaxed and easy, into the flame, watching his face as the panic that bubbled automatically inside him stilled at her calm demeanor.  Daenerys kept it there moments longer, and Jon slid his gaze to her face, seeing no sign of pain or injury, just slight amusement.  She finally pulled her hand back, flipping it palm up before him for his inspection.

Jon grasped her wrist, seeing nothing marring the flesh he’d seen contact the flame, and he raised it to his lips, mouth pressing into her palm before releasing her.

”Amazing indeed, Daenerys the Unburnt.”  She grinned at his words, climbing astride him once more, the book she’d been reading held loosely in her other hand.

”I wager I know something about you as well, Jon Snow.”  She showed him the cover of the tome, words faded with age but clear enough to indicate it was a collection of the History and Lore of the First Men.  “Tyrion told me that when he met you, you had a direwolf as a companion.  Is that true?”

Jon nodded, watching as she dropped the volume back to the floor with a thud and directed her attention to him once more. “Aye, Ghost.  Reckon he’s much bigger now than when Tyrion last saw him, though.”  He wondered what she would think of him, Jon’s most faithful friend, bonded to him in ways he only had the barest understanding of; the massive white wolf that defended him fearlessly.

”It is said that direwolves have not lived south of the Wall for centuries.  They were thought to be extinct.  Much like dragons.”  Jon nodded again, his eyes straying almost against his will to the strain of her breasts against the deep blue silk.  “It is also said that fewer still are those with the ability to have such a companion, those rich in the blood of the First Men, who can warg such creatures.”  Daenerys leaned forward, eyes searching his eagerly.  “Are you a warg, King in the North?”

Jon felt that momentary urge to deny the truth, the things that had been said of him in the Night’s Watch, of he and Ghost, still floating there in the depths of his memory.  But he loved her, and he understood suddenly why she asked; he could see the yearning in her eyes, because she was different from everyone else, and so was he.  And she wanted desperately not to be alone in being different.

The King let his eyes dance over her before catching hers again, smiling slightly as his hands came to rest on the smooth fabric covering her thighs, pressed tightly alongside his own.  “Aye, Dany, I am.”  He thrilled at her blinding smile, that such a thing that had made him an abomination in the Night’s Watch made her so happy.

She caught her lip between her teeth, sliding her hips against him as his hands tightened, her eyes shutting as she stilled for a moment.  “Jon, there is something I must discuss with you.”

Jon relaxed his grip, but she did not move from his lap, only brought her hands to his shoulders where he was semi-upright against the chaise.  “Anything.”

Here was a nervous nibble of her lip between her teeth, a darting of her eyes.  “I had a vision, once, years ago. Tell me what you think it means.”  She licked her lips.  “I saw a wall of ice, so tall I could not see the top from where I stood.  I did not know what it meant until Eastwatch, until I saw the Wall in person, that it was the same.”  Her voice trembled a bit there, at the mention of Jon’s most recent brush with near-death.  “In my vision, at the base of the Wall, at the very foundation, there was a chink of ice gone.  From it grew a blue rose.”  Her amethyst eyes locked with his.  “I saw that rose once more, in a book.  It was a blue winter rose, like those grown in Winterfell.”  

Jon was breathing a bit more rapid, because there was one very obvious interpretation.  She’d had a vision of him.  “I suppose that might mean...well, me.  But I cannot begin to guess why.”  He could, he could certainly guess why, but he’d probably bungle an attempt to explain it.

Daenerys smiled, pink lips pursing a bit as if she knew what he was thinking.  “I think it means you were always meant for me, Jon Snow.  And now I have you.” She let her full weight relax against him now, the pressure against his pelvis a familiar torture now, one that drew a groan from him as she pressed her hands into his shoulders more firmly.  “Let us speak of what I promised to discuss with you.  Only truth Jon, even if you think I won’t like it.”  He nodded in agreement.  “When I left Mereen, it was with the understanding that I would need to build alliances in Westeros.  I understood that the need may arise for me to gain such an alliance through marriage, though I privately hated the idea.”  Her eyes searched his, his own heart chafing at the notion that she would be forced once more to trade herself for political games, to gain a throne.

“My advisors believe it would be very politically advantageous for us to marry, Jon Snow.”  Daenerys tried to remain collected but he could see the worry in her eyes as she awaited a reaction.

There was shock coursing through him, his ears buzzing as he struggled with the notion that she was serious.  She wanted to marry him.  Her fingertip pressed against his lips before he could respond, though, so he waited, letting her finish what she’d wanted to say even though it was hardly necessary.

”It is true that it would be advantageous to ally with the North through marriage.  But I will not marry you for politics.”  Jon’s stomach fell, just a bit, realizing she must be ending this now, realizing it had been too good to last, after all.  However, she spoke again.  “I will marry you because I love you.  Because you are the King I choose.  And I will only marry you if you wish it as well, Jon Snow.  I will only marry you if you can stomach a life of ruling with me.”  She gave a nervous laugh now.  “Assuming we survive, of course.”

Jon couldn’t speak.  His lungs felt frozen, every word he wanted to say fleeing his mind before his tongue could form it.  He gave a sharp exhale, hands grazing up her legs and hips to press against her back, bringing her flush against his chest.  Her own breathing came in shallow pants now, her eyes panicking a bit, and Jon realized he’d gone far too long without answering and he was the worst sort of fool.

His words were a low growl.  “If you think I would say no to marrying the person I love most in the world, then I will have to doubt your previous claims of my delightfulness, Dany.”  Her hands gripped his face, and she gave a tearful laugh, eyes glittering as she smiled at him.  He had no more words, but he could show her, of that he was sure.

Jon brought a hand to the nape of her neck, her face grazing his, noses rubbing breathing into her and she into him.  Then her eyes slipped shut and her lips were on his, silky and smooth and pressing so gently, until he could take it no more and he deepened the kiss, hand now holding her head to his as his tongue swept into her mouth, while the hand on her back slid slowly down to her side, palm grazing her breast and eliciting a pleased moan.

Daenerys finally released his mouth, gasping for air, grasping his hands bringing them to the father of fabric at her waist, just where he’d suspected he could rid her of the garment earlier.  “Lucky guess, Jon Snow.  Get this off me.”

Jon chuckled, hands twisting as the catch released, fabric dropping to hand loosely now from each shoulder, just the edges of her breasts teasing him as he drank in the skin revealed from collar to navel.  “Not luck, Dany.  I pay very close attention.”  His hands pushed the fabric from her shoulders, heart pounding as he  brought his lips to her nipples, hard and peaked and beckoning him to taste them in the flickering light.  He lost himself in it, his attention solely on the soft, sweet skin before him, flicks of his tongue and gentle nips of his teeth making her writhe against him now, long slow slides of her hips that made him hate that they’d gotten dressed at all, that they’d put any barriers between her skin and his.  He suckled harder, bringing a broken “Jon!” from her lips as they teased each other now, his mouth and her hips burning his control to ashes.

His mouth released her, and he studied his work, her breasts heaving and slick from his mouth, nipples rosy from his attention, and his cock surged once more as she ground herself against him harder, breath hissing between her teeth.  Jon could take no more; Daenerys loved him, had told him so, wanted to marry him, and he needed to be inside her to feel her around him, the closest thing to home he thought he’d ever find.

Dany must have agreed, as her hands shot down suddenly, pulling the pooled fabric over her head, gloriously bare before him now.  She battled with the laces of his breeches, freeing him and giving Jon soft, light strokes with her hand that made him whimper with want of her.  She didn’t wait for any other invitation, didn’t even wait for him to strip the pants he still wore away, just grasped his length with practiced ease now and slipped down onto him, the heat and snug slide of her bringing his head to rest against her neck as she took him within her completely.  

Daenerys moaned a long, throaty blend of his name and words he couldn’t quiet make out, every muscle now on fire for her, tensed and focus on the rise and fall of her against him, his mouth claiming her breasts once more as she rode him deliberately, one hand on his shoulder and one clutching the back of his head as his mouth nipped and sucked at her soft skin, first one rosy peak then the other until she panted with want, hips that were deliciously measured in movement now growing frantic as she drove herself against him.  She was so needy for him, starting to give keening cries as her back arched, pushing her chest further into the sensation of Jon’s hands and lips, pulling and rolling her and driving them both mindless for nothing but this, for what they created in each other.

Jon was too close, too soon; too overwhelmed by the notion that he loved her and she loved him and he was going to marry her, love and lust stirring something primal in him, that wanted to grab his release with both hands, but while Jon might be a bastard he was a gentleman, deep down, and he would not allow himself that pleasure until she was in the grips of hers.  His hands grabbed her hips now, guiding her even harder against him as she rode him erratically now, and her forehead dropped to rest against his, eyes on his as she gasped and groaned.  

Jon’s eyes did not stray, the fire in her eyes, lust and love and promise and forever; It was enough to make his toes curl as he fought spilling into her, releasing her hips to thumb her clit roughly as he palmed her breast, her breath catching and hips tensing as he felt it, that first grip of her walls around his cock that meant she was nearly there, and he whispered, low and rough, the words escaping that he could not hope to stop.  “I love you, Dany.  So fucking much.”

It was enough, not that he’d intended it, but she cried his name as she gave in at last, clutching him tightly to her as she bucked and shook against.  Her name came out in a choked cry from between his lips, the feel of her coming around him now insistent, pulling release from him mercilessly, eyes still locked on hers as they shuddered against each other, her hips still diving down to consume him, his thrusting as he captured her lips finally, a clashing of tongues and teeth that gave way to something gentler as their bodies slowed, muscles relaxing as he brought his arms around her and held her to him as she finally stilled.

Her breath still escaped in little puffs, but she nuzzled her face against him, little hums of contentment sounding from her throat as he stroked a hand through her hair.  

“So I reckon this is a library of sorts, then?”  She couldn’t see his grin but she laughed at his question just as he’d hoped she would.

Dany raised her head, skin damp with sweat, more beautiful than he’d ever seen her.  “Of sorts.”

”Wonderful rooms, libraries.”  He brought his hands to her hips, gripping her firmly as she twisted against his now softening cock with a moan.  He’d have her again, in fairly short order, of that much he was certain.  “Extremely educational, it seems.”

Her brow arched, wicked smile spreading larger as she brought her lips against hers.  “I will teach you many things, my love.”


	8. Spider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One secret was never so secret after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please make sure you have fastened your personal flotation devices before boarding the boat! And let me know what you thought, y’know, so I don’t get the sads.

Jon Snow was a person Varys paid a great deal of attention to.

He doubted the stoic, quiet young King in the North was aware. He couldn’t be, really, because Varys had kept spies on the man since he’d learned of his birth, more than a year after Robert’s Rebellion had ended.

By the time his little birds had given him what scant information was to be found, the Queen had already birthed a daughter, a true Targaryen heir, silver of hair with purple eyes, the living embodiment of her House. And Varys had made sure the tiny Princess and her brother had escaped Dragonstone, to the relative safety that could be mustered across the Narrow Sea.

Yes, by the time scattered information had reached his attention about Ned Stark’s return to Winterfell, now Lord Stark, married to his brother’s betrothed with a newborn heir awaiting him, Varys had felt assured that the pieces were in place to protect the exiled Targaryen heirs in Essos until they grew old enough to raise their own war. If they weren’t mad, of course; Varys had hoped dearly that a life outside of the trappings of royalty might foster in them a kinder breed of ruler.

Jon Snow, that newborn babe that the honorable Eddard Stark had returned with, his bastard by all accounts, a rare mistake by an honest Northern Lord; he was a subject that Varys had gone to great lengths to learn about. Where many took the act as yet another truth by a man who did not lie, and asked no more about it, Varys had employed every contact he had. And he had done so because of that seemingly forgotten fact regarding Ned Stark’s return home: Ned Stark had brought home the body of his dead sister, Lyanna.

And back then, of course, if one found the Lady Lyanna Stark, one would surely find the Crown Prince of Dragonstone, Rhaegar Targaryen.

So it was very curious, Varys had found. A situation worthy of investigation, subtly of course.

His initial inquiries garnered little real information, but what he did learn had led him to initially doubt his suspicions. For the first few years of his life, Jon Snow showed no outward manifestations of the Targaryen features, some claiming Catelyn Stark even lamented how much more *northern* her husband’s bastard appeared than her own children.

But something persisted in Varys. A feeling that, if he were right, he would make every effort to protect the boy from Robert Baratheon. If the Master of Whispers was correct, the boy Jon Snow was as good as dead, along with House Stark.

He had stored it away, just a thought that required a bit of tending now and then, nothing more.

Then one afternoon, ten years past the rebellion’s end, a piece of information arrived that turned Jon Snow from a mere chance to something much more. Varys hated nothing more than placing all of his hopes on one plan. And this raven from Dorne told a very dangerous tale. The father of a wet nurse had told a drunken rambling story of his daughter, Wyla, taken on by none other than Rhaegar Targaryen, to see to his pregnant wife. And then, the man had said, the Prince had died, and his wife had died, but the baby boy had lived, and now his daughter lived in the North, where the wolves sheltered a secret dragon.

Varys had regretted ordering the man’s death, but some truths were so monumental that they had to be protected at all costs. And from then on, the Spider had ensured he always had contacts in the North.

He’d been relieved when the news came that Jon Snow had taken the Black. There was safety at the Wall, for someone with a secret as life-threatening as Jon Snow’s. At the Wall he would be difficult for Robert to touch.

Once Jon Snow was elected Lord Commander his information seemed to vanish, as the secret Prince had gone beyond the Wall where his birds could not follow.

What he learned after the man’s return was rather dubious, but all parties seemed to agree on a few basic facts: Jon Snow had seen something out there, something so terrifying that he’d led the Wildings south. A few of his brothers had mutinied. And, incredible as it seemed, Jon Snow had died from his wounds, only to return from death days later, brought back by the very woman who’d sought the Queen Varys now served, the Mother of Dragons.

Jon Snow had left the Wall with a wilding army, raising limited support from the Northern Lords to take back Winterfell from the Boltons. Jon Snow had won the Battle of the Bastards with the aid of the Vale, and those Northern Lords had named him King. The irony of it all was not lost on Varys, if the information he’d obtained from some rather bookish sorts at the Citadel were correct; The Bolton bastard had been defeated by a trueborn son of House Targaryen, and the North had elected as their King not the bastard of Ned Stark but the trueborn son of his sister.

None of it, however, was proof on its own. Daenerys would always be the easiest Targaryen to place on the throne, with her Targaryen looks and massive dragons. Jon Snow was little more than the last best hope Varys could muster if everything else fell apart.

When the man had come to Dragonstone Varys hadn’t been sure what to expect. Information could be rather biased, so perhaps all these grand tales of a young King with those Stark virtues, honesty and loyalty and honor had been exaggerated.

They had not. If anything, Varys found they had been underplayed, these descriptions, for the Spider had found the King too reckless with his own life to save others, too honest when he needn’t be, too honorable even in the face of his enemies.

It was exasperating, really, as Varys was not used to dealing with rulers who possessed so little regard for their own lives. And Jon Snow had brought news of his own, of a War to be fought far to the north, not for a Throne but for life itself. He’d hoped perhaps Jon Snow was mad, perhaps the only Targaryen manifestation the man had, but then he had seen the creature for himself, and he’d been stricken with the first real fear he had felt in many years.

These two Targaryens, who’d consumed his focus for longer than they might believe could likely die in this war.

If they died, then all was lost. Everyone would die if they fell.

Varys watched them now, silently, wondering if now was the time that he would be forced to believe in things like fate, or destiny. Because when he thought on it, the reality he found himself in had never even existed as a possibility back then.

Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen had overcome insurmountable odds to survive. Somehow, they had found themselves as chosen rulers. Somehow Daenerys had done what her ancestors had not, and had returned Dragons to the world. Somehow Jon Snow had returned from the dead. Somehow fate had guided them, all of them really, to each other.

Somehow they were in love.

A Stark and Targaryen, bound together once more, but now perhaps it would be what would end wars instead of starting them. Perhaps this time it would win wars.

Jon Snow would be a remarkable King. And Daenerys would be a remarkable Queen. But Varys always viewed things from afar, to see the edges and outlying details, and he knew for certain now that it must be done together.

Jon Snow had a calmer temperament, and had already given the Queen fine counsel. But the danger in Jon Snow was that til now he lived as if he were ready to die and he embraced it.

The Spider saw him now, as the sun set, the Queen merely a silver head and face peeking out of the King’s furs, both facing the dying daylight as he stood behind her, his chin resting atop her head.

Perhaps Jon Snow had needed something to live for. Perhaps they both needed the other, someone to share the burden of the crown and throne. Perhaps it was true that Kings and Queens were never really meant to rule alone.

Whatever the case, the pair had approached their respective Hands earlier that day to inform them that they would marry, and for Varys that had seemed the conclusion of this tale. The name of a King or Queen did not matter, and Varys would not be required to shatter the illusion that likely anchored Jon Snow to who he was.

But Davos, in passing, had mentioned something after the pair had left. Something that had made Tyrion’s mouth hang agape, something that had made the Spider’s heart pound quickly.

Ser Davos had good-naturedly told Varys and Tyrion that he reckoned Jon had been enamored with the Queen from near the start, but he reckoned the Queen has probably only softened when Jon Snow had faced down her great black dragon Drogon. Then, Davos had chortled, Jon had gone and pet the thing, like one would a house cat.

That was, this far, the most concrete evidence Varys could have hoped for, if he’d wanted to prove Jon Snow’s true identity. But before a war against an undead army hardly seemed the best time to completely unbalance the man who would have to lead his troops into battle.

But if Varys could allow that something had been pushing them all together for this noblest of causes, to save all those who lived in the entirety of Westeros, then he must allow for the possibility that Jon Snow may have to ride a dragon himself.

He must allow that fate had guided the Queen to name her remaining, riderless dragon son after the father of the man she would now marry, the man she had come to love.

He must allow that he would have to disclose what he knew or they would never even think to try such a thing; it was no secret that, except in very rare circumstances, those without Targaryen blood would not survive the attempt.

He must allow that two dragon riders could possibly win this war where one might not.

So Varys stood, a bit of real affection surprising him as it bloomed within him, watching in profile the faces of the young King and Queen, already so mistreated by the lives they were born into, as they found such natural solace in each other. He found himself hesitant to be the bearer of such news, as politically it would not matter once they wed.

But there was something nagging at him, all of the improbable circumstances that had led them here, the words of the woman Melisandre about bringing Ice and Fire together, the overwhelming instinct that both dragons would need riders if they wished to survive to seek any throne at all.

He would watch, and he would wait, and he would see what awaited them once they made landfall in the North. Then Varys would decide the best course of action.

They stood so sweetly together, wrapped completely in each other, light pressed against dark. Two halves of a greater whole, he mused. And in them Varys could see greatness, the opportunity for real peace for the people of this land.

Varys had no desire to disrupt their joy in each other. They were so young, really, barely more than children themselves in age if not in lived experience.

And Varys had always had a soft spot for children.

 

 


	9. Weapon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s not really sure anyone has cared for her, truly, not like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re sad no babies were made this chapter worry not, Jon Snow will get back to work next chapter!

Jon Snow was many things, Daenerys thought, fingering the scrap of paper she’d found on her pillow when she’d finally opened her eyes.

He was honest, almost to a fault.

He was brave, if not carelessly so at times.

He was handsome in a way that set her teeth on edge at times, because he seemed almost oblivious to it, because it was not something he took pains to create, he just was.

He was a very fast learner when it came to finding ways to please her.

And, she thought, a silly sigh escaping between her lips, he was very sweet. Dany doubted he would agree, or that ‘sweet’ was something the former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, now the King of the North, a celebrated warrior in his own right would want to be described as.

But he was, and that was something she would keep to herself, something about him that was just for her. Jon Snow did things that just came reflexively to him, things that might have seemed overt and designed to win her over had he been any other man. But Jon seemed to be completely without guile, so when he delayed taking his own meals to wait to dine with her, or when it took no more than the faintest shiver for him to draw her into the shelter of those heavy furs, it was simply because he wanted to.

Her eyes scanned the note, warmth flooding through her at the words he’d written, requesting that she seek him above deck once she found herself fully rested, and not a moment before, and to dress for fighting, but warmly, if she pleased.

Daenerys stretched slowly, curious as to exactly what Jon Snow had in mind. She felt a bit bereft, rising slowly to rummage through her trunks, realizing this was the first morning since they’d left Dragonstone that she hadn’t woken up to him sleeping next to her. She was not at all used to such wistful thoughts, it wasn’t as if he’d disappeared, after all. She chastised herself sternly; Queens who commanded armies and dragons did not moon like silly girls. It was time to begin her day, and she could not expect to be taken seriously if she was flouncing about like a lovestruck maid.

Daenerys blew out a breath, hands drawing breeches and a quilted tunic from the items she’d requested for their journey into colder climates. She pulled the items on almost blindly; Jon’s furs were gone, so he most certainly was wearing them, and she’d found it was a most wonderful pastime to slip under them with him, and it was remarkably easy to let her hands wander where she wished in the relative privacy the long cloak provided.

She took a seat at her dressing table, shaking her head at her own reflection as she realized she was doing it again, her mind unable to refrain from returning to Jon Snow, who would be her husband.

Her eyes met her reflection once more, unable to hide her tiny smile even from herself at the thought of it, of marrying Jon Snow and having him for herself for as long as she lived.

Perhaps a few more minutes, then. A few more moments of just being a mooning fool in the privacy of this room, then she’d become the Queen once more.

—————

Daenerys had assumed the King in the North would be alone when she found her way above deck, but as she walked up the wooden steps and took in the view before her she realized she’d been sorely mistaken.

She saw Jon rummaging in a trunk with the blacksmith Gendry nearby, a trunk she quickly realized held an assortment of weapons as they were unloaded by the two men. There were some she was at least passably familiar with, but having had no formal weapons training to speak of that was the exception rather than the rule.

A long bench held an assortment of knives in various shapes and sizes, and she approached Grey Worm and Missandei as her friend ran light fingertips over a set of small blades.

“Should I be concerned about the sheer number of sharp edges surrounding us, Missandei?” Her translator laughed at the dryly asked question, even the usually taciturn Grey Worm smiling as they turned to face the Queen.

It was her Unsullied captain who spoke, however. “The King suggests that Missandei and the Queen take some time on this journey to learn to handle a weapon of your own. There may come a time when you must defend yourself and it would be best to be prepared.”

Daenerys raised a brow, smiling as she looked back at the blades Missandei had been studying. “Did he now?”

She heard him before she felt him, Jon’s voice reaching her mere moments before his hands grasped her waist. “Aye, he did.”

Daenerys took a step back, leaning against the wall of his chest and tipping her head to the side to whisper in his ear. “Bored already with spending all your free time in my bed, Jon Snow?”

Jon snorted, looking down at her for a moment then bringing his lips to her ear in return. “A resounding no. However, I am strangely lacking in the ability to focus on anything but you in such a scenario.” He nipped her ear lobe, a flush of heat coursing through her as she bit back a moan. “And such tremendous distraction does not mix well with weapons training, Dany.”

She heaved a put-upon sigh, managing a convincing frown as she turned to face him only to giggle quietly at the amused exasperation on his face. “I’ll behave.”

Jon Snow extended his elbow, waiting until she took it before walking with her to the trunk he’d been so occupied with before, giving her a chuckling, “Oh, I very much doubt that.”

She noticed he seemed almost excited as they approached the weapons that lay before them, putting his hands on her shoulders and saying “Wait here.” He selected something a bit unfamiliar to her rather limited knowledge of weapons, striding forward with a small smile quirking the corners of his mouth up. “Have you used one of these before?”

She shook her head numbly, a most marvelous realization distracting her for a moment. Jon Snow wanted her to be able to defend herself, completely. He had seen the weakness in her defenses, that she was not trained in any sort of weapon that could save her in close combat, and he was helping her become stronger. He wanted her to become stronger.

There had been one doubt, deep in her heart, that Jon, this wonderful brave man who instinctually protected with all he had, might try to take over, push her to the side when the hour came for the real fight to begin, out of some misplaced idea that she was not strong enough to do so on her own. On this she would not have backed down, and she had already begun to dread the fight that would ensue, as she had found them both to be extraordinarily stubborn people.

But he knew she was strong enough. And he had brought her here, done all this, to help her be as strong as she could possibly be, on her own, aside from him.

Jon Snow believed in her. Completely. And instead of using her weakness to his advantage, chaining her to him for need of his sword, he was showing her how much more of a weapon Daenerys Targaryen could be if given the chance and the training.

She loved him so completely in that moment that she wanted to weep with it, something so pure in it that she almost couldn’t breathe, but she managed to choke out a response in spite of herself. “What is it?”

Jon grinned now, nodding for her to raise her hands, placing the wooden grip in her palm and arranging her fingers correctly. He slid behind her now, lips to her ear once more as his arm grasped hers and raised them together, straightening her elbow until the weapon was even with the horizon. “It’s a crossbow.” His whisper tickled at her ear. “I think you’re going to like it.”

Daenerys felt him smile against her skin as his index finger wrapped around hers. “This is the trigger.” She nodded, feeling the metal at the back of her finger now. Jon whispered once more, lowering her arm to a target stretched across stacked squares of grassy, tightly-packed hay. “Squeeze it.”

————-

Jon Snow was right. She very much liked the crossbow, and she’d spent the next few hours with him, learning the mechanics of it, how it broke down, how to care for it, how to load it.

Shooting it was not something she seemed to need much instruction with, and she was hitting the center targets before very long, marveling that it was rather fun, the kick as the bolt leapt forward something her hand was already looking forward to feeling every time she stopped to reload.

By the time everyone broke for a meal below deck she was exhilarated, the thrill of excelling at something mingling with how proud Jon looked when he thought she wasn’t looking, making her restless for him, somewhere below decks and with far less clothing.

She rummaged through the hay with him, pulling bolts from the targets and gathering them for re-use.

”These are fairly lightweight, for practice, so we don’t punch a hole through the boat.” Jon was talking as he searched. “When we make landfall you can start using heavier bolts.”

”How did you know?” He glanced over, pulling a bolt free as his eyes questioned her meaning. “The crossbow?”

Jon flashed a smile, eyes crinkling a bit as he held out a hand for the bolts she’d found. “Just a feeling.”

”And how did I do, in your experienced estimation?” Now she handed over the crossbow a bit reluctantly, watching him load it in the trunk before turning back to her.

His face was serious now, no jest in his voice when he spoke. “Frighteningly well for the first time you’ve ever even used one.” He held out his arm, smiling at her as she took it. “So I’d better be sure I stay on your good side, I suppose.”

Daenerys smiled slyly, eyes climbing from his boots to his eyes slowly. “I’d say you’re remarkably good at that.”


	10. Sliver of Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion and Dany POVs. Rhaegar and Lyanna and a little bit of truth. And some smut because why not.?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two POVs this chapter, marked accordingly so there won't be any confusion when we get to the smut

_**Tyrion** _

Tyrion paced slowly before the cloth map of the Seven Kingdoms, watching each time he turned as the galley slowly emptied.  The King in the North and the Queen Tyrion had pledged himself in service to remained seated, the Queen flanked by Varys.  He smiled a bit as he saw the two facing each other slightly, speaking quietly about something that made Jon Snow look a bit flushed as the Queen laughed. 

Yes, well.  Things better not to guess at, he decided.

It was a shame they looked so happy, because he could only guess at the reaction to what he needed to discuss with them.

“There’s a subject of some sensitivity we should broach, better sooner than later I think.”  All eyes were on him now, and he looked between Jon and Daenerys as they focused on his face.  “At the very least, so we may allow plenty of time to craft the best response when the issued is raised.”  He sighed a bit, look at the Queen now.  “As I’m sure it will be.”

It was Jon who spoke first, his voice a bit gruff but not unkind.  “Whatever it is, Tyrion, just say it and be done with it.”  Tyrion held the young man’s gaze, his eyes perhaps the only thing he recognized from the boy he’d met years ago.  Oh, he was still broody, certainly, he’d caught the Bastard of Winterfell at it more than once on Dragonstone.  But since they’d departed…well, it seemed the Queen was a better influence on the young King than Tyrion might have thought possible, looking almost cheerful most of the time.  But, Tyrion mused, such was the nature of having a willing bedmate to relieve the stresses of the day.  He remained hopeful that White Harbor may have improved the quality of their whores in the time that had passed since his last visit.

Tyrion cleared his throat.  “It’s about Rhaegar.  And Lyanna.”  He watched as the pair straightened, the Queen glancing hesitantly at Jon, who folded his hands before him on the table and looked at Tyrion with serious eyes. 

“It doesn’t matter.  They’re long dead, and we’ve got a war to fight that isn’t going to be swayed by a kidnapping more than twenty years ago.  We’ve got to leave all that in the past if we’re going to fight together.”  Tyrion nodded; it was what he’d hoped to hear, that Jon Snow would not be interested in trying to appease the Northern Lords on this front, as no matter what one believed there was no proof one way or the other, just competing stories of those long dead as Jon had so succinctly pointed out.

The Queen’s Hand watched as Jon turned to his soon-to-be wife, his hand reaching out to take hers openly.  She raised her head, eyes searching his face biting her lip as if she wanted to speak.

It was Varys who spoke, though, his mellifluous voice dancing smoothly around them as he asked, “Do you want to know the real truth?”  The bald man was staring at the King and Queen now, who had turned curious eyes to him almost simultaneously.

“Do you know the real truth, my Lord?”  The Queen’s voice had a bit of an edge; Varys was someone she had not grown to fully trust yet.  Tyrion doubted she fully trusted him, and he was her Hand.

“I know many things.  Things others have long forgotten, things others have tried to hide.  Things some thought would be washed away into the sands of time.”  Varys was not sporting his usual bored smile, and was rapidly sounding grim rather than fanciful as he spoke.  “I was Hand to your father, Aerys, then.  He was paranoid to a fault, convinced everyone was trying to kill him.  And he was most suspicious of your mother and Rhaegar, Your Grace.”  Daenerys furrowed her brow, mouth twisting down into a frown.  “Oh, yes, he could be cruel when holding court, that was no secret.  But he saved his worst cruelty for the privacy of the Keep, for his wife and for many years his only son.”

Varys stood now, pacing as his flowing robes trailed along his feet, the King and Queen listening intently now, faces tensed in concentration.  “Rhaegar was a good man.  A bit melancholy, as far as that sort of thing goes.”  The Spider paused by the window, staring out at the cloudy cold sky above.  “But he loved the people.  He cared for them far more than he cared for himself or his own happiness.”  Varys nodded, his features wistful in a way he hadn’t seen in a man who masked everything behind a calm smile.  “He would have been a good King, for all his unhappiness.  When Aerys told Rhaegar to wed Elia Martell, the Crown Prince agreed because he had expected no less.  The highborn of Westeros have always traded their children about as if they are nothing more than pawns in a game.  And all those future lords and ladies, princes and princesses,” Varys paused, eyes lingering on the King and Queen clutching hands tightly, “even future Kings and Queens grow up knowing they will never marry for love.”

It was easy for Tyrion to forget how very long Varys had been in the service of the monarchs of Westeros, as the man was almost ageless in appearance.  And so it had slipped Tyrion’s mind that Varys had been there in King’s Landing for much of the events of the Rebellion, Tyrion himself being too young at the time to remember much, and being considered too monstrous by his father to ever be taken to King’s Landing and seen by Targaryen royalty.  “What does this have to do with Lyanna Stark, Lord Varys?”  Tyrion knew his voice was a bit clipped, tinged with the remembrance of his father’s many cruelties.

Varys walked over to the table where Jon and Daenerys sat, now sitting across from them as he looked between them both.  Tyrion wasn’t going to be ignored, not by the Spider, so he moved to seat himself at the eunuch’s side as the man finally answered the Hand to the Queen’s question.  “It has everything to do with Lyanna Stark.”  Varys turned to face just Jon Snow.  “I’d wager your father didn’t speak much of her, did he?”  Jon stilled, then shook his head, meeting the Spider’s eyes.

“Hardly ever.  But he did say that my sister Arya reminded him of her.”  At the mention of the younger Stark sister Tyrion hesitated.  She was still too much of an unknown for Tyrion’s comfort, no matter how easily Jon Snow dismissed any concerns that she might harm the Queen.  A girl of 17 who could slaughter an entire House at once was a force to be reckoned with.  Tyrion would hope the King was right, but he wasn’t counting on it.

Varys smiled what Tyrion thought to be a real smile at Jon Snow’s words.  “I believe that’s a fair statement.  I made it my business to learn everything I could about Lyanna Stark, from the moment Rhaegar Targaryen crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty at Harranhal.”  The King nodded; he at least seemed to be familiar with this part of the tale, but Tyrion couldn’t help but wonder exactly where Varys was heading with this.  Whether they’d fallen in love and run off together, or the Dragon Prince had stolen a Wolf of Winterfell away, the North believed as it believed and would likely not be swayed by the account of The Spider.

“Will you allow me to tell you what I learned, Your Graces?”  Tyrion almost forgotten the Queen was there until Varys asked the question of them, and they reached some sort of silent agreement as their eyes met, both nodding as they turned back to the Master of Whispers.

“Lyanna Stark was one of the finest riders in the North.  Some said she was the best in a few of the other Seven Kingdoms as well.  Lord Rickard had done his best once his wife died, not long after Benjen was born, but she was a girl raised by men, and while she was still a girl her father did not stop her from riding, and hunting, and learning arms along with her brothers.”  Jon smiled at this, and it struck Tyrion that it explained why Ned Stark had let his own daughter do so, recalling talk of a Braavosi swordsman hired by the Lord of Winterfell to train Arya while in King’s Landing.

“But eventually, the time came when Lyanna was a girl no more, and Lord Rickard began arranging betrothals for his children.  Brandon Stark, the future Lord of Winterfell, would marry Catelyn Tully of the Riverlands, and his only daughter would marry Robert Baratheon of Storm’s Landing.”  Varys looked to the Queen now.  “Both pairings raised a few concerns in the Crownlands, and there was word that Lord Stark had developed more Southern ambitions that were usually seen in the North.”  Varys shook his head, throwing up his hands a bit.  “Nevertheless, my understanding is that while Lyanna Stark’s brothers may have grown fond of Robert while they fostered with Jon Arryn in the Vale, Lyanna did not share such sentiments.  Her betrothed had already developed a taste for wine and women, and by Harrenhal he’d already gotten bastards on a few girls, mostly tavern wenches and whores.” 

Varys clucked his tongue, eyes curious as they gazed at the King.  “How would your sister respond if your father had told her she’d be forced to stop all the things she loved, things proper Ladies did not do, to marry a man who had no intention of changing his ways.  What would she do in the face of it?  Dishonor and shame for a lifetime, all for political gain?  Knowing she would be miserable for the rest of her life but powerless to stop it?”

Jon stared solemnly at Varys for a long time, chewing his bottom lip and drumming the fingers of his free hand on the table.  He heaved a breath, giving the Queen a small smile then turning back to Varys.  “She’d run away.  Without hesitation.  Probably sneak off in the night before anyone could catch her.”

“That’s right.  And she did.  She went with Rhaegar willingly, as well, when the raven she’d sent finally reached him, that she was not going to let her father take the one thing she had, her honor, and throw it away before her life had even really started.”  Varys put an elbow on the table, leaning his weight against it as he continued his tale.  “I can’t say the Prince was in love with her then.  I don’t know that Rhaegar would have realized it at the time, in any case.  His had been a life terribly empty of love.  He and the Princess Elia were congenial enough, considered the other a friend, but with the exception of his children and his mother I don’t know that he’d been loved much at all.”  This was information Tyrion had never heard, the kind of tale that made one heartsick at the tragedy of it all.

Varys rose now, walking once more to the window as one hand twisted into the fabric at his waist.  “But what I do know is that eventually they were seen together in Dorne, at a tower in the Red Mountains that Rhaegar named ‘The Tower of Joy’.  I suppose one could assume they were in love by then.”  Varys stopped now, eyes burning suddenly now as he stared at the pair.  “Is it so hard to believe, Your Graces?  That a Stark and Targaryen could fall in love?  Could be drawn to each other even under inconvenient circumstances?”

The Queen smiled at her intended, hand coming up to cup his cheek as their eyes met.  “Not so hard to believe, my Lord.”  It was awfully hard for Tyrion, in that moment, to stop that quiet romantic inside of him, who cheered for the bastards and exiles and dwarves of the world, from smiling as Jon Snow smiled at her in return.  He looked away after a second, the exchange seeming oddly private.

“There are rumors, for those with the ears to hear.  Rumors that Rhaegar convinced a Dornish Septon to annul his marriage to Elia Martell.  Rumors that he married Lyanna in a secret ceremony.”  Varys raised his hands as if to stop the questions from the wide-eyed pair before they surely started.  “Merely rumors, and nothing that can be substantiated before your war must be waged in the North.  Perhaps telling you the truth of it means nothing.” 

Varys walked over slowly to stand before the two.  “But perhaps I’m starting to appreciate your line of thinking regarding lies, King in the North.  That you know the truth will suffice for me; and the truth is that Robert Baratheon started the lie that the Prince kidnapped Lyanna.  He knew it wasn’t true, and he got Brandon Stark worked into such a state that he got himself imprisoned.  And after Robert won the Throne?  Who do you imagine would openly speak against him, once he was King?”

Jon Snow looked down at the wooden grain of the table now, his shoulders falling as he breathed out a soft, “Shit.”

Tyrion took a deep draw from his flask, swallowing and staring at Varys.  “It was a lie.  This entire time…Seven Hells.”  Robert had always been a hot head, and he’d practically littered Westeros with bastards while he’d been married to Cersei, but that he would perpetuate such a dangerous falsehood for so long, harboring such hatred in his wounded pride that he hunted down every last Targaryen he could find until his death? 

Yes.  That sounded very much like Robert Baratheon, that fat drunken whoremonger.

Varys stood, nodding to the Queen and King who just sat looking a bit rocked by the whole tale.  Tyrion watched the man glide to the door, the eunuch glancing back at him as he left.  Something was going on here.  This entire explanation had seemed more heartfelt than Varys seemed capable of pretending, and it shook Tyrion slightly.  The man knew something more than what he spoke.

Tyrion rose as well, uttering a quiet “By your leave,” and earning an equally soft “Of course.”  Daenerys gave him a slight nod as he left, her voice trailing off to turn back to the King.  Best to make a quick escape before the galley was ruined for him for the duration of this journey. 

He found Varys above deck, gazing off into the sea.  The Spider glanced his way as he approached, not at all surprised to find him there.

“What do you know, Varys?”  Tyrion kept his voice somewhat friendly, drawing out the man’s name.

Varys gave him a half smile, quickly followed by a scoff.  “For a man who is as well-studied as you are, Lord Hand, I find myself surprised you haven’t worked it out for yourself by now.” 

Tyrion sighed in exasperation.  “Why don’t you narrow my focus, at least, since you seem intent on not simply saying what it is outright?”

Varys looked around, a breath heaving his chest, eyes to the cloudy sky above.  “Ned Stark brought two things home with him after the Rebellion, Tyrion.  What were they?”

Tyrion rubbed his chin, turning over what he knew of the history he’d been told, and what he’d just learned.  “The Honorable Ned Stark brought home his own bastard, scandal that it was.”

Varys nodded.  “That is the first thing.  I wonder if you know the second, as it seems remarkably forgettable, doesn’t it?  It shouldn’t be, though.  It seems rather important.”  Tyrion mulled it over, searching the depths of his rather large stores of knowledge, the answer hitting him like a punch in the stomach. 

“His sister’s dead body.  Lyanna Stark.”  The wild beauty of the North who’d been stolen away by none other than Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.  Except she hadn’t been, according to Varys.  According to Varys it was rumored that they married.  And then he realized exactly what it was that Ned Stark had done.  The lengths he had gone to, the stain to his honor, to protect his sister’s newborn babe from the man who’d started the whole war with a lie.  Yes, Ned Stark had done the impossible feat of telling the most honorable lie in all of Westeros.  Tyrion shook his head, chuckling in spite of himself.  No one should ever have underestimated the Starks. 

That meant, if it was true that Rhaegar had married Lyanna, that Jon Snow was no bastard at all.

Ned Stark had raised the trueborn son of the Crown Prince of Dragonstone and his sister under the nose of the man who sought the blood of the Targaryens ‘til the day he died, and no one had ever worked it out, in all this time.  Except, apparently, Varys.  But that should not surprise him, Varys always knew things no one ever knew, it was his job to know.

“Jon Snow is Rhaegar’s son.  He’s a Targaryen.”  Tyrion spoke so quietly he wasn’t sure the bald man had heard, but Varys dipped his chin in agreement, silent for long moments before he spoke.

“He touched the Queen’s dragon, Tyrion.  Drogon, the largest.  We both know the lore, don’t we?”  Tyrion gave a stiff nod; he had indeed read almost any book he’d been able to obtain over the years that pertained to dragons.  The odds that Jon Snow could have approached the beast, who would have been naturally aggressive in a need to protect it’s rider?  Impossibly small unless he was a Targaryen.

It was just such a large, heavy truth that his mind had trouble wrapping around it.  And it would damage Jon Snow monumentally to learn that what he’d thought he knew about himself was a lie.  His father was not his father.  “Shit.”  He needed a drink.  More than a few.  “We can’t tell him now.  They have to fight a war, against that horror we saw in the Dragon Pit, but one hundred thousand strong.”  Tyrion released a long sigh.  “The potential issue of heirship resolves itself with marriage.  Perhaps we need not completely ruin the King’s sense of self unless absolutely necessary?”

Varys was solemn now.  “Agreed, Lord Hand.”

Tyrion looked north, clouds darkening by the hour as they readied to drop more rain upon them.  “I suppose all we may do ‘til then is brace ourselves for the storm.”

\------------

_**Daenerys** _

Daenerys had asked Missandei to show Jon Snow to her once he’d finished dining and tried to return to their room.  She smiled at the thought, leaning her head back as she waited, eyes closed and relaxing into the heat.  The morning had been hard for Jon, the things Varys had revealed to them making him quiet and contemplative, but he seemed to recover a bit after they'd shared a midday meal, his only response when she broached the topic a gentle repetition of what he'd told Tyrion that morning.  It was in the past, he'd said, but he felt strangely better that his father's sister had left due to love and not force.

She heard the door rasp open, her translator’s soft voicing wishing the King a good evening.  Dany heard him bid Missandei the same and pull the door shut, throwing the bolt and calling through the changing screen that set her back from his view.  “Hiding again?”  She could hear the laughter in his voice as he walked closer, head finally poking around the screen.  She smiled as his eyes grew wide, taking in the large metal tub bolted down, steam rising from the water and around her wet shoulders and arms as they rose above the edge of the water.  “How is it that each room I find you in is better than the one before it?”

The Queen laughed as he smiled at her, sitting down a bit wearily at the bench along the wall as he toed off his boots.  She watched, seeing the frustration on his face as he unlaced the leathers fitted over his chest, standing to pull them off as well and toss them on top of his boots.  He looked exhausted, she thought, probably more from the long hours of tedious discussion and planning than from any physical exertion.  She hadn’t had him all day, and it was wearing on her, hungry for him in a way she shouldn’t be any more, by all rights.  They’d joined at every urge since that first night, only slowing when their days had to stop being solely focused on each other.  She hated seeing him so tense and tired. 

So, the Queen stood suddenly, Jon’s movement as he made to pull his tunic off stalling and leaving the garment hanging from his arm as he stared at her.  Water streamed from her skin, slowing to a drip as he ran his eyes so intensely over her body that it seemed she could feel it, almost a physical sensation that made an intense flush of want course through her.  Dany smiled as she stepped out of the tub, brushing past him as she pulled her robe from the bench and then walking back to him.  She moved slowly, the roll of her hips a bit more exaggerated than normal, his eyes a bit dazed as she drew in close.

“Do you need some help, Jon?”  She whispered the question against his lips as her finger drew a damp line down the center of his chest ‘til she met with the pants he still wore.  Daenerys traced her finger lower still, along the thick length of him straining against the material, reveling in the long groan that rumbled against her lips.

Jon Snow finally snapped out of his haze, eyes sharpening as he pulled his head back, hands moving her back slightly so he could see all of her now, his hands sliding along damp skin to cup her breasts, and she moaned almost immediately at the feel of his strong hands on her, finally.  “I think so, Dany.  I’m far too distracted for such a task right now.”  One of Jon’s hands slid to her neck then, finally kissing her as his other began to toy with her, pinching and pulling at her the taut peak of a nipple.  She gasped, lips parting and immediately feeling the slide of his tongue between them, stroking against hers, and she met it with hers avidly, whimpering into his mouth as she pictured that sure, strong, stroking tongue of his elsewhere on her body.

Her hands sprang into motion, unthreading the laces and tugging the offending clothing as far down his hips as she could reach without breaking the seal of her lips against his, panting when he finally tore his mouth away from hers to rid himself of the pants, a low chuckle breaking free as she dropped her robe to the floor, kneeling before him and sliding her palms slowly up his thighs, curving up to grasp the firm cheeks of his ass and drawing him closer to her.  “You must not plan on this lasting very long, Dany.”

Daenerys raised her eyes to his, her hand trailing from the head of his cock to the base, grasping him there lightly with her fist and trailing her tongue along the underside with a slow lick, lips circling the tip before parting to tell him in a teasing, sultry tone, “I think we both know this won’t be the last time you’re ready for me tonight, Jon.”  He could only groan in response as her tongue slicked over him, her fist sliding up and spreading the moisture her mouth left in it’s wake until he was slippery beneath her hand as she was for him, her thighs aching from how tightly she pressed them together now, her hips twisting of their own accord as he began to thrust with the rhythm she set.  A rough palm settled on her shoulder, squeezing slightly as the other came to rest along her cheek, a broad thumb tracing a path along her temple.

She looked at him, his lips parted and eyes heavy with desire as he watched her hand and mouth along his cock, his lip catching between his teeth when he realized she was staring at him as he disappeared into her mouth again and again.  She began increasing the pace with each stroke, her hand tightening and slicking along his entire length now as she dipped her head, her tongue laving a hot, wet trail across his balls as he let loose with a string of curses in a harsh, hungry utterance.  She repeated the motion once, then again, feeling them tighten beneath the slight rasp of her tongue and raising her head.

His eyes snapped to hers, almost black in the dim light of the room, candles flickering and making his skin dance in the dappled light.  Daenerys brought her mouth to hover just above the tip of his cock, her name escaping his lips and sounding like a plea.

It certainly wouldn’t do to make him beg, not after the long, arduous day he’d endured, so she purred up at him a small request he seemed more than ready to comply with, his eyes screwing shut as she spoke.  “I want it, Jon.  Don’t make me wait.”  She took the length of him slowly, a moan spilling forth from him as she relaxed her throat around the girth of him, pulling back and taking him against more swiftly, increasingly wet, long strokes that had him thrusting mindlessly against her fisted hand, his grip on her shoulder tightening in warning that he was close, but she only increased her efforts, determined to wring release out of him, to taste him on her tongue.  A few more sure strokes of her hand and mouth had him crying out, his hips erratic as he thrust once, then twice more, his release flooding her mouth with him as she swallowed him down, stroking his hip with her free hand as he calmed.

Daenerys licked her lips, rising slowly as he tracked her movements with heavy-lidded eyes.  She brought a hand to his face, turning his head from her and in the direction of the tub she’d vacated.  “Get in the bath, Jon Snow.  You’re going to relax one way or another.”  He scoffed at her playful command, but did not hesitant to sink into the still heated water, hand coming up to free his hair and dunk himself completely under the water.

She slipped her robe on, coming to stand beside him as he opened his eyes, swiping water from them with his thumbs and frowning at the sight of her robe.  “I’d be much more relaxed if you took that robe back off, in case you were wondering.”

Daenerys smiled serenely, handing him soap and a washing cloth.  “It won’t be on for long.”


	11. Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran: Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?
> 
> Eddard: That is the only time a man can be brave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh my brain was willing but not my body, and I fell asleep before I could post this last night. Better late than never!

Jon felt fingertips dancing across his brow, down the line of his nose, tickling across his jaw, rousing him from sleep slowly.  He kept still, eyes shut as if he slumbered on, trying not to wriggle and squirm as long, silky hair slid across his bicep, the Queen tucked into his side shifting against him as she traced along his skin.

“Dany.”  He whispered her name as he opened his eyes.  She smiled, her own features still relaxed and easy, and Jon suspected she’d not be awake very long herself.  “You realize the sun isn’t even up yet?”

Daenerys nodded, pressing a kiss to his temple.  “Let’s go wait for it.” 

Jon gazed at her, thinking on how she would look as those first blushes of dawn streaked across the sky.  It was something he greatly wanted to see, suddenly, settling a hand in her hair and rubbing the smooth strands between his thumb and forefinger.  “As the Queen wishes.” 

Dany grinned and hopped up, already crossing the room to dress in something warm enough for the pre-dawn chill.  Jon rose a bit more slowly, rubbing his eyes as a wide yawn stretched his mouth.  He tugged on his breeches, grabbing the tunic he’d slung across the back of a chair and slipping it over his head. 

The King sat at the end of the bed, tugging on his boots as Daenerys stepped closer, woolen overcoat and trousers on, hair smoothed back and fastened loosely to trail down her back.  Jon stood and grabbed his furs, sliding them across his shoulders and fastening them. 

Dany finally spoke, eyes warm and understanding as he yawned once more.  “I’ll even promise to let you rest when we return, instead of teasing you into more *demanding* pastimes.”  She smiled and pressed a kiss to his lips, laughing as he grumbled against her mouth, “Let’s not be hasty.”

\------------

It had taken her even less time than he’d expected to crawl inside his furs, once he’d leaned against the wooden support of the foremast, mere seconds passing before she was wrapped warmly with him, her back firmly against his chest and her head leaning against his shoulder as he brought his hands around her waist.

“I’ve just realized, Jon, that you told your Queen a falsehood.”  Daenerys spoke quietly, a teasing lilt in her voice as she tipped her head towards him.  “Shocking for such an honest man.”

Jon gave a quick bark of laughter, shaking his head and peering down at her.  “I did no such thing.”

“Is that so?  Let’s see if this helps you recall it.  Do you remember me asking you about what Ser Davos had said?  About you taking a knife to the heart for your people?”  Her smile grew as she spoke, one brow climbing up as she met his eyes.

“To be fair, Ser Davos does get carried away.  Quite often, in fact.  So strictly speaking, that wasn’t a lie, exactly.”  Jon cleared his throat, fighting to keep the smile from his face but losing the fight at the sight of her narrowed eyes.  “But I will admit it wasn’t the truth, exactly.”

“Treasonous.”  She pressed a kiss to his neck.  Jon felt her hands slide along his forearms down to where his hands were joined in front of her.  He tightened his arms around her as he felt her start to shiver against him, her small hands now atop his and clasping against his fingers.

“I have waged battles of my own for many years now, Jon.  But I have never felt such fear as I do now, as each day brings us closer to facing an enemy that may end our lives no matter what we do.”  Jon heard her sniff, her face facing straight ahead now, but he knew if he turned her to face him there would be tears on her cheeks.  He was quiet, thinking carefully on how to respond.  He would not lie in this, give her empty promises that her fears were unfounded.  He knew what they faced and he felt fear twist his gut every day, the fear of losing this war, or losing her, just as he’d found her.

Jon tilted his head down, mouth near her ear as he spoke softly, the sun just beginning to break above the endless horizon of sea.  “My father used to say that the only time we can be brave is when we are afraid.  And I have found that to be uncommonly true for me.”  He turned her now, her eyes wide and wet as she faced him.  “I was terrified when I left Winterfell, to come and beg you for your help, knowing you probably wouldn’t believe me, knowing you could kill me if you wanted.”  Her mouth twisted, in amusement or sadness he wasn’t sure, and her warm hand slid up his chest to cup the curve along the back of his neck. 

“And yet somehow, brave Jon Snow returns to Winterfell with what he sought.  How did you manage that, King in the North?”  Her eyes brightened a bit, fright still there shimmering in the depths but dampened for now.

“Vast amounts of fear.”

Dany looked at him seriously, eyes searching his as she brought a hand to his cheek.  Her palm rasped along his jaw gently, dipping her eyes to his chest.  “Imagine what we may accomplish with twice that.”

\------------

There were times, Jon had found, when nothing alleviated the currents of fear and frustration that wound their way through him like fighting.

So when Gendry found him above deck, the sun barely filtering through more gathering clouds by midday, and held out two training swords, he was glad to lose himself in the movements that were almost mindless to him by now, muscle memory and years of reading his opponents stopping the somewhat clumsy swings from the blacksmith.

Jon stopped every now and then to tell Gendry what adjustments to make, glad to see the young man taking the instruction almost instinctively, knees a bit looser now, the feel of the sword becoming less foreign in the man’s hand as Jon led him through drill after drill.  Gendry did not complain, sweat coating his forehead as he leaned against the rail during the break the King had given him, taking great gulping mouthfuls from a water skin and passing it to Jon.

“She saved my life, you know.  Your sister.”  Gendry looked to Jon, who drank his fill then passed the skin back.  That didn’t surprise Jon; for as lethal as his sister may have become, she was still a Stark, she still possessed that code of honor and justice that Jon supposed they must all have been born with, even a bastard such as him.

Gendry let out a chuckle, turning away from the sight of the choppy waves foaming around the hull of the ship and smiling at Jon.  “Although I’m fairly certain there’s a good chance she’ll try to kill me.”

Jon snorted.  There was a little hint of fear in the young man’s voice, not fully jesting as his words might’ve suggested.

“You must’ve done something exceedingly stupid, then.”  Gendry looked down at Jon’s statement, shuffling a bit on his feet as he examined the grip on the training sword.

“She begged me to come with her, to Winterfell.  Right before the Brotherhood sold me to Melisandre and the Hound took her to find your brother in the Riverlands.”  Gendry shook his head in disgust, seemingly at himself.  “Said I could be part of her family, that I could have a home there with the Starks.  And I chose to go with those Brotherhood fucks instead, thinking I was going to be one of them, and they sold me like a fucking slave.  Arya’s probably still right pissed over that.”

Jon studied the young man closely.  “She’ll get over it.”  Jon grabbed the training sword he’d been using, twirling it easily and moving back to the empty stretch of deck they’d been sparring on, waiting for Gendry to join him.  “But in case she doesn’t, we probably ought to make sure you can swing more than that damn warhammer.  Too slow to use against someone as small as my sister, she’ll have a knife at your throat before you can draw back a swing.”  Jon dropped into a defensive stance, gesturing for Gendry to advance and parrying the blows.  “Besides, I can’t let her kill the only blacksmith in Winterfell right before a fucking war.”  Jon grinned, sweeping Gendry’s legs as he caught him off guard and bringing the point of the sword down to hover above the man’s throat.

“Get up.  Let’s go again.”

\-------------

Jon made his way to the galley only when his stomach protested loudly, glad to see Daenerys was still there, talking with Davos and Tyrion as she ate, her lips parting in a bright smile as she saw him enter the room.

He filled his plate quickly, claiming a seat on the bench beside the Queen as he nodded a greeting to their respective Hands.  In the first few days after he’d knocked on Dany’s door he’d tried to mind himself in front of the others, but her complete lack of hesitation in her affection for him, even when surrounded by others, had leached that from him, and he didn’t spare a thought for any opinion but hers as he dropped a kiss on her cheek before turning to his plate.

Davos cleared his throat, throwing a knowing smile to Jon as he spoke.  “We were just discussing the Northern Lords, Your Grace.  Both the loyal and the more…politically minded amongst them.”

Jon rolled his eyes, tearing off a chunk of bread.  “Perhaps we’ll have to sic young Lady Mormont on them once more, shame them all into refraining from acting like stubborn fools.”

Daenerys laughed, looking between Jon and Davos while Tyrion leaned against the table, listening intently.  “How young is she?”

“Eleven, I believe.  But she’s a fierce little thing.”  Davos spoke fondly now.  “And she’s got more honor than most of them Lords three times her age.  It was she who first called for Jon to be named King in the North.”

Dany slipped her fingers through his, squeezing.  “Smart girl.”

Jon returned the gesture, but his mind already leaping ahead to one potential problem with House Mormont that might arise with their return.  “She’s Ser Jorah’s cousin.”  Jon sighed.  “My father was the one who exiled Jorah years ago.  I don’t know that he will be safe in the North as things stand now.  If he is to fight, I will need to pardon him.”

Daenerys tugged on his hand, silently asking him to look at her.  “You would do that?”

“I can’t pretend to know the man he was back then.  But he’s served you for years.  I fought by his side beyond the Wall.  I have to think he’s not who he was, and we will need his sword in this fight.  I will pardon him, but I will not force House Mormont to accept him returning to Bear Island if that is what he wishes.”

“I must say, I am a bit surprised you would be willing to revoke a sentence passed by your father, Your Grace.”  Tyrion’s voice did not sound surprised, to Jon’s ears, just curious and assessing.

“We are well past the time where we can afford to be divided, especially amongst ourselves.  I’ll not lose a skilled sword arm over old sins and ancient grudges.  That’s the thinking that’s bled the Kingdoms dry for longer than I can even begin to imagine.”  Jon meant it, truthfully, and this was a decision he’d been wrestling with since he realized the man would be returning North with them.  It was a difficult one to make, and the Houses of the North might not be happy with his choice, but it was the only clear path he could see.  From the tales Dany had shared with him, Jorah Mormont had done plenty of suffering in his years of exile.  And a selfish part of Jon, that part that had looked at the older man very suspiciously from the moment he’d seen the way Jorah looked at the Queen, knew Jorah was probably on this ship somewhere avoiding Jon and Daenerys and nursing his dashed hopes, and he couldn’t bring himself to feel much sadness for that.

The Queen grabbed his chin now, forcefully bringing his face down to hers and kissing him soundly.  “What a good man you are, Jon Snow.”  With that declaration, she stood, nodding to Tyrion and Davos and making to walk past him.  He felt her pause behind him, her head dipping to whisper in his ear.  “If I do not have you inside me soon I’m going to scream, Jon.  You know where to find me.”


	12. Needful Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just straight up smut. Nothing fancy, we still have 18 days to go, but hey, I have faith in these two crazy kids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tip of the hat to you all. :) Enjoy!

Daenerys hummed sleepily, the feel of a warm, calloused hand slipping along the length of her thigh rousing her slowly.  At some point she’d wrapped herself around Jon in her sleep, one hand tucked under her where her head had decided his chest would suffice as a pillow, her other arm and her leg thrown across his body, palm flat against his ribs, leg stretched across his waist.  She smiled, eyes blinking open, her hand now creeping across his chest to trace the raised skin of each scar.

Jon’s hand did not cease it’s activity, his palm stroking ever more lengthy circuits from the back of her knee to the highest point of her upper thigh.  She wanted to squirm after a few moments, the sensation too firm to be ticklish and too soft to be demanding, but it would take a mere shift of her hips to bring push herself against him, to grind the growing wetness his touch seemed constantly capable of creating against his hip.  It would be easy to seize on this sleepy haze of desire and quickly let it grow into something fast and burning and consuming, but Daenerys would exercise patience this morning.

Jon Snow was certainly something that could be enjoyed quickly, and often.  And she had done both, in various places both above deck and below, discovering that below his quiet, somber exterior was a man whose appetite matched her own, his need for her the same constant pulse beneath his skin as hers was for him.  But in moments like this, when things were quiet, she had found it equally satisfying to take her time, to feel every plane and muscle and tendon of him, to savor the beautiful precise rightness of his skin against hers, the achingly slow drag and thrust of him inside her when they took their time.

Jon seemed to have, in short time, grown very proficient in the language of her, cataloging each moan and keen and cry and whimper, each arch and press and slide of her skin, knowing when to give her more, or less, when she wanted him faster, or harder, or when to linger and draw out his ministrations without a single word required.  It was remarkable, really, to be so known, so intimately familiar with someone in this way, realizing she had acquired the same knowledge of him.  He was a bit more shy about asking for what he wanted, but it had become obvious to her now, almost a reflex to see the look in his eyes, or the flex of his hips, to hear her name panted against her skin or groaned so slowly it seemed to hang in the air around them for ages; she could hear and see in all these things what he wanted from her, and it was easy to give him any of it, all of it.

“Did I wake you?”  She might have looked up, then, at his rough whisper, but instead she shifted her eyes down, to where her thigh was still draped across his abdomen under the blankets.  Daenerys pressed her lips to the pectoral muscle beneath her cheek, smiling against his skin as she slid her leg lower, just enough to brush against the insistent hardness of him and hearing his breath catch slightly.

“I certainly hope you meant to.”  She felt the small laugh before she heard it, his chest shaking beneath her. 

Jon’s hand stilled it’s motions, tightening on her upper thigh and kneading the flesh slightly.  It took all the will she could muster not to press herself flush against him, the ache for his touch in several places growing as his fingers gripped her leg tightly.  “I would never do such a thing.”

“Yes, you would.”  She gave in to the urge, finally, her stomach and breasts pressed into his chest and side as she leaned up to see his face.  “I do it all the time.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed at her, but Dany could not find it in her to take the expression seriously as his hand began it’s slow slide along her thigh once more.  “I’m quite aware.”

“I could always stop such awful, ill-advised behavior.  I’m sure it’s quite a trial to endure.”  She looked at him seriously as she spoke, then lowered her mouth to his chest, her tongue rasping along a scar as she kept her eyes on his face.

“You could, if you wanted me to toss myself overboard.”  He lost control of serious, focused mask he’d tried to keep, laughing, his hand sliding a bit higher now, just along the lower curve of her ass before sliding back down to her knee. 

Dany bit lightly into his skin, just where neck met chest, the moan he let loose making her close her eyes at the rush of want that shot through her, but not yet done playing with him.  Jon was delightfully cooperative in that regard, another unexpected thing she’d been happy to discover.  “Do you not recall what I requested, Jon?”  She raised her head, tilting it expectantly.

He appeared to consider the question, moments passing before he responded, and she admired the effort he put into keeping the amusement from his features, even if he couldn’t from his voice.  “Something you requested?  Let’s see.  You are quite demanding, it may be hard to recall.”  The corner of his mouth twitched at her arched brow.  “You did very forcefully request that I not stop, mere hours ago.  Was that it?”

Daenerys shook her head.  “You’ll have to try again.”

“There was a ‘harder, Jon’ request in there as well.  That could be it.”  The look of smug innocence on his face made her bite the inside of her lip to keep from laughing.

“Wrong again.”  She wondered if he was going to recite the entire litany of things she’d cried or gasped or begged of him, finger tracing a slow path along his neck and down to his sternum.

Daenerys felt his hips shift beneath her, his cock hard and hot and fully pressing against the soft skin of her thigh.  “Is ‘just like that’ the same thing as ‘don’t stop’?”

“You are so very aggravating.”  He smirked at her stern words, hand that had been wrapped around her back now tracing the line of her spine.  The feel of his hands on her, that constant motion against her thigh and back, coupled with the persistent hardness that she was finding hard to ignore now gave her no choice in the matter, and she shifted against his side to bring her wet, aching center against the hard ridge of his hip bone.

There was something about this specifically that she found addicting; every time he felt the proof of how much she wanted him, how much she desired his touch, he seemed so amazed, as if each time he was as surprised and aroused as the first time he’d felt how wet she was for him.  The sight of his eyes slamming shut against the sensation, coupled with the curse that escaped from those wonderful soft lips; it was all she needed to grow slicker still, her hips twisting and seeking the firm press of him, whatever part of him she could get in that instant. 

Daenerys felt his hips thrust up, his cock sliding against her, just barely, and she thought he’d given in, that he was going to give her what he’d woken her up for.  But Jon Snow could still surprise her, she found, and he cleared his throat and spoke as if they were at a small council meeting.  “Could it have been your request that I not even *joke* about possibly dying in your presence?”

“I can’t say I’m pleased at how long it took you to arrive at the correct answer, Your Grace.”  The scold would have sounded very believable if she hadn’t followed it with a slow roll of her hips against him, clit aching for contact now, and the sweet relief that coursed through her at the sensation allowed a breathy gasp to escape.

Jon’s lips were pressed together, as if containing his own cry, but the breath streaming quickly through his nose gave him away all the same.  “Have you considered that perhaps you are just extraordinarily distracting?”

“Is that so?”  She could play innocent as well as he could, better even, and she met those dark hungry eyes with as blank an expression as she could manage.

His gaze focused on her lips, and she slowly wet her lower lip with her tongue, watching his fall open slightly in response.  “The first time I ever saw you, there in that throne room on Dragonstone, I thought I was prepared.  It wasn’t a secret that you were supposed to be very beautiful, but I thought, ‘Hardly matters.  I’ve seen beautiful women before.’  And up until I walked through those doors I was completely convinced of that notion.”  Jon’s hand was hot on her lower back, pressing against her suddenly to slide her hips against him again, eyes drooping a bit as she gave a small cry, her mouth falling open at the friction he gave her as he ground her into him slowly.

“Then, of course, I saw you, and for a moment I couldn’t even remember what the fuck I was doing there.”  His hips moved once more, another slow thrust upwards of his length against her.  “And then the only thought in my head was, ‘Shit.  Jon, you bastard, don’t say anything stupid.’  Then, of course, you started talking and all I remember then was thinking you were the most stubborn, irritating woman I’d ever met in my entire life.”

Daenerys stared at him for a moment, a slight smile on her lips, then slowly leaned over to lick and suck gently against the scar over his heart.  “And yet here you are, Jon.”  She moaned against his chest as he slid the hand not pinning her hips against him along her ribs to tease skin just above her breasts.

“I must not have realized yet that stubborn and irritating were things I would find necessary to consider marrying someone.”  His eyes grew a bit softer then, and she could do nothing besides place a gentle kiss in the center of his chest, the sweetness of it belying her next words.

“You are very lucky that I find aggravating and willfully reckless to be so delightful.”  Dany arched up, finally, lips claiming his hungrily as his mouth opened almost immediately to hers.  Her hands couldn’t seem to stay still, nails raking through the short, bristling hair that lined his jaw only to slide to the back of his head, holding his face to hers as he slipped her upper lip between his, sucking the sensitive skin into his heated mouth and laving it with his tongue in a manner he knew would drive her mad with want.  By the time he repeated the act on her lower lip she was writhing against him helplessly, whimpering as he made no move to ease the ache for her.

Jon Snow seemed to be under the impression that she would fight fairly.  But as she flung the blankets from them, and made sure he watched her hand as it trailed down his muscled abdomen, over her thigh and to that thick, hard cock that felt as if it had been made to fit with her every time he was inside her; then, he realized his error.  Daenerys paid attention as well, and she trailed several fingertips lightly up his length, pausing at the tip to swirl a finger through the moisture that had already gathered there.  Very slowly she drew her finger away, his agonized groan at the contact just a precursor to the choked, rasping sounds he made as he watched her lick the taste of him from the digit, slipping it completely into her mouth then slowly pulling it free.

“Are you quite done with all your wicked teasing, Jon?”  She smirked as he nodded once, his mouth still open and his eyes dropping from hers to wander across her breasts as she pulled herself to his side.  “So am I.”

Daenerys straddled him quickly, his cock sliding against her clit now as she ground herself against him, his swollen length a burning heat that made her increase her pace.  “Take me how you want me.  However you pictured having your Queen before you so rudely woke her up.”  Her hips did not still as she spoke, circling and slicking against him as her readiness for him became completely revealed to him at last.

Jon Snow grinned in a positively feral manner, eyes predatory and watchful as he grabbed her hips firmly and rolled her, her back meeting the blankets under her suddenly and a thrilling excitement rushing through her as he nipped roughly at her throat and wrapped his hands around her thighs, raising them around his hips.  She locked her ankles around him, using the leverage to try to align their bodies, to take him into her.  But then Jon Snow pulled back, issuing a demand of his own.

“Hold on.”  He brought her arms to his shoulders and slid his hands under her, lifting her suddenly, crossing the room, and she anchored herself to him, thighs squeezing his hips.

Then Jon backed her into the wall, a hand leaving her back to position himself against her entrance, and she keened at the feel of him there, so close, pressing her back into the wooden grain of the wall tightly as he finally thrust inside of her, a stroke so sure and hard and smooth that she choked out his name, a cry following as he buried himself in her completely, and he stilled.

His eyes locked with hers, and he watched her face as he gave a long, slow thrust that made her mouth fall open once more, then pulling back to give another equally drawn out thrust of his hips that became tortuous as he pumped in and out of her, every nerve in her body seeming to blaze with the feel of him, satisfyingly full with the burning, throbbing heat of him filling her, but needing something more.

“Something you need, Dany?”  Jon’s hands dropped, firmly holding her hips against the wall, a broken, needy cry all that should could manage as he dipped his head to take the hard, aching tip of her breast into his mouth, suckling roughly as he kept up the slow maddening snap of his hips against hers.  She moaned entirely too loudly as released her, catching the other nipple between his teeth and alternating those gentle nips with the hard suction of his mouth.  She was going to die, she thought; this was the only fire that might actually burn her, this heat between them that was unrelenting, and she pressed her shoulders against the wall, her back arching away and into the sweet agony of his mouth on her.

This was decidedly unfair, she thought.  She was on the verge of a release that was coiling with savage strength within her, and he had far too much control of himself to still think to tease her. 

“I need to know how hard you can fuck me like this, Jon.”  She didn’t say it loudly.  She didn’t say it firmly.  But she looked right into his eyes as she spoke, need and love and unyielding hunger bleeding into her voice, and he stared right back, his reaction immediate as he set his jaw, eyes growing just a bit larger, grip on her a bit tighter now.

And then Daenerys was gripping desperately at his shoulders, clinging with strong fingers to his muscled arms as he began slamming his cock into her savagely, each thrust forcing an exhale from her as she cried out his name, even that devolving into harsh, heated wails each time he drove into her.  She could feel it, pleasure swirling ever tighter into the sharp ache of a release she begged for now, a loud “Please!” bringing his mouth to her neck, licking and biting and sucking mercilessly as he loosed his grip enough on her hips to bring his hand to her clit, thumb grazing it and making her shake before two fingers pinched firmly, the sharp tug forcing her over the edge, shouting his name as she came violently around his, nails digging into his shoulders hips bucking against him as wave after wave of release crashed over her.

She could barely hear his harsh cries as he pounded his hips against hers, each thrust into her gripping and milking him with fierce clasping force.  Her name left his lips in a loud, guttural moan as he finally came as well, stilling a moment as her grasping walls drew his seed into her, his voice now choked as he spilled, hips jerking then stilling again as he buried his head into her neck.  He was still breathing heavily as he laughed, dark hair raising to look at her.

“We’d better get Tyrion some more pillows, Dany.”


	13. Tyrion, Interrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just one night of sleep. That's all he really wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO HAS LEFT SUCH AWESOME COMMENTS! 
> 
> We are nearing the halfway point as we sail together, friends, so I just wanted to thank you for boarding the Good Ship Boatsex with me, and hanging on even through non-smut chapters. It hurts me too but it's gotta be that way. Don't worry. They're still boatsexing. They're boatsexing right now, even if we can't see it.
> 
> I love you all. Thank you for sailing with me, to send a better message. I know you could have flown.
> 
> This chapter's a bit of a shorty, but hopefully still somewhat satisfying.

Tyrion thought of himself as a very patient man, all things considered.  Extremely patient.  And frankly, anything he ran out of patience for could be handled easily after excessive amounts of wine. 

But he could not spend one more night in his cabin. 

He would not.

If he did not get one whole night of sleep soon, he was certain he would either willingly leap into the waves and pray for sharks, or he would say something that would prompt someone else on board to do so to him.  He very much doubted he would care.

It was too much.  Too much to ask of anyone.  If it wasn’t the Queen yelling and wailing it was the King groaning and shouting, or the worst: both at the same time.  The first night, he’d thought he was past the worst after the second round of…noise, but he’d been wrong.

So wrong.

He was not sure exactly how Jon Snow was managing it.  There were no circles under his eyes, he wasn’t nodding off every time he sat, he didn’t appear to be on the edge of lunacy from surviving on so little sleep at all.  No, that was Tyrion. 

The King in the North appeared perfectly fine.  Happy even.  Well, happy for Jon Snow, which translated loosely into not brooding every minute of the day between bursts of rather morose conversation.  No, now it was possible to have a perfectly friendly conversation with the man, much changed now from that somber bastard boy he’d met years ago.

Jon Snow even *joked* at times.

Tyrion was happy for him, for both of them, really, he was.  But this was their thirteenth day aboard and he had already tried changing rooms with a few of the other men, and none were willing to stay in Tyrion’s cabin more than a few hours before pounding on the door and demanding their room back.

The Hound had agreed first, accusing Tyrion of being a whinging cunt of a half-man.

Three hours into the most blissful sleep Tyrion had found in the journey, he’d banged his fist on the door, throwing it open before the Queen’s Hand could even rise and pointing to the hall.  “Not a fucking chance.”  Tyrion had wiped the sleep from his eyes and trudged down to his cabin, the quiet lulling him into thinking the worst was over.  But then, for the next few hours, the King had apparently engaged in his own personal challenge of seeing how many times the Queen could…well, it had been an impressive display of skill, it seemed, but no matter how he shoved the feather-stuffed pillows against his ears he could still hear the Queen calling out the King’s name.

Then the lad Gendry had agreed, but it had taken even less time before the young blacksmith was knocking loudly, asking for his room back, saying, “You’re fucking mad if you think I’m listening to that all night, my Lord.”

What a treat it had been for Tyrion, arriving tiredly back at his room, to hear Jon Snow groaning as if he lay dying in a field, an interesting string of curses and shouts and moans disturbingly close to the shared wall.  Silence had been an elusive friend, as it wasn’t long before the Queen was moaning and crying out, then impossibly the King as well.  Again.

Ah, youth.

And so tonight Tyrion sat in the galley, downing wine as quickly as he could fill his cup, glancing about to see if he could find another brave soul willing to trade rooms, even for just one night. 

Then his eyes lit on Ser Davos Seaworth.

Perfect.

Tyrion made his way over to the old smuggler, taking a seat and giving him a friendly nod.  “Good evening, Ser Davos.  How fare you?”

Davos smiled, stroking a hand down the short grey beard on his chin before looking at the King and Queen a few tables down and dining together.  Daenerys was laughing, grabbing the King’s cup and taking a drink, handing it back with a slight grimace.  It appeared she was not a fan of ale, then, Tyrion thought.  But then she tipped her head, considering, and swapped their cups, taking Jon Snow’s ale and handing him her wine.  Tyrion watched Jon narrow his eyes a bit, the Queen repeating the gesture, until finally the King laughed and drained the Queen’s wine in one long drink.

The King’s Hand laughed and met Tyrion’s eyes.  “Oh, I’m right as rain, Tyrion.”  Davos sighed, eyes sliding over Tyrion’s face.  “Reckon you’re not.  I know why you’re here.”

Tyrion raised his eyebrows.  “You do?”

Davos laughed heartily.  “It’s not exactly a secret that you’ve been searching for some poor soul to change cabins with you for a time now.  Just so happens I might have good news for you.”

“Is that so?” 

“Oh, certainly.  If you’d come to me first I could’ve told you that since I’ve moved into the cabin meant for the King, you could have the one I’d first had.”

Relief sagged through Tyrion, eyes burning at the thought of being blissfully closed for the whole night, sweet sleep calling to him through the wine he’d already numbed himself with.

“Take me there, Davos.  I beg you.”  The smuggler laughed, rising and beckoning Tyrion follow him, Davos giving one more glance back to the King and Queen as they laughed.  It was strange to see Jon Snow laugh so much; it was becoming unsettling in it’s frequency.

Tyrion trailed after Davos, winding through the belly of the ship to the cabin that would be his respite.  Opening the door to the darkened room, Davos turned to Tyrion.  “I can find you something to light those candles with, if you wish…”

The Queen’s Hand stopped him, holding his hand up before disappearing into the room and saying, “I appreciate the offer, Davos, but for what I plan on I need no light at all.”

The King’s Hand just chuckled.  “Enjoy your rest.”

And Tyrion did.  He slept through the night, surely snoring as he dreamed for the first time since he’d boarded this godsforsaken ship.

And it was everything he'd hoped it would be.


	14. Foreign Tongues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow has been learning things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back together again for our group boatsex! Remember the rules: No judging, make sure you didn't eat sooner than 30 minutes ago, and get ready for some boatfluff.
> 
> Don't worry, I'll smut you up tamely next chapter. 
> 
> In this chapter they are speaking both Dothraki and Valyrian. Let's be real, I'm doing one of these everyday, was I going to find all those translations? Ain't nobody got time for that. 
> 
> Dothraki is Italic, Valyrian is Bold Italic. Go. Go frolic.

Qhono found the King and Queen while they were having a midday meal, the Queen’s translator Missandei and Grey Worm seated across from them when the bloodrider took a seat.

Jon listed as Daenerys exchanged greetings in the man’s native tongue, trying to wrap his ears around each syllable spoken to understand what they were saying.  When the Queen had granted him access to mine the caves beneath Dragonstone the bulk of the workers she provided were Dothraki, and Jon had quickly realized that he must learn at least a few words passably to be able to communicate with them. 

Of all the languages he’d heard spoken since he’d landed on that island Dothraki had seem to come relatively easily to him, it wasn’t necessarily fluid like the Valyrian dialects the Queen and the Unsullied spoke, but a bit harsher and coarser on his tongue.  Something of roughness of it reminded him of the North perhaps, if not in sound then in the feel of it as he had learned to speak; the men that had become vital in aiding his quest for dragonglass teaching him more words as his understanding grew.

So Jon was able to grasp that Qhono and the Queen were discussing how many scouts she wished to accompany her personally once they reached shore, and how many would scout ahead.  The King smiled to himself, glancing up at Missandei and Grey Worm who smiled briefly back and continued eating. 

Finally Qhono asked Jon a question directly.  “ _Does the Snow King know how long we ride?_ ”

 _“Three weeks should the weather stay true.  Your men will need the furs when we make land.  Cold can kill quickly.”_ Jon met Qhono’s eyes, seeing the man nod and grunt, taking great bites of his meal and chewing.  He looked to Daenerys who stared at him with startled eyes.

“So the King speaks Dothraki now, does he?”  She laughed softly, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.

 _“If I am to work with men, if I am to fight with men, I must understand them.”_   Qhono’s eyes went to Daenerys as Jon answered, a bit amused as he seemed to realize that she hadn’t known Jon had been learning the language from her men.

She met her bloodrider’s eyes in return. _”Wise for a man who fights many battles.  What says the khalasar, Qhono, of the Snow King?”_

Qhono studied Jon, eyes still carrying a hint of the threat he’d seen the first day he’d arrived at Dragonstone, this man the one to take Longclaw.  _“They say he works hard.  Fights well for a small man.”_ He turned back to the Queen, continuing in an easier tone.  _“The ones who saw the dead man rise in the pit of Dragons know what we fight, they tell the rest of the khalasar the story.”_   His eyes shot to Jon now, the barest hint of respect in the man’s eyes more than the King thought he’d ever see.  _“The Snow King came to the Khaleesi to get fearless warriors to fight this enemy, because he knows Dothraki fear no enemy.”_

 _“This enemy wants nothing but death.  So we must be sure to deliver it to him.”_ Jon’s response got an actual smile from the Dothraki man, probably at the tinge of violence that colored the King’s voice.

 _“And so we shall.  In Fire and Blood.”_ Daenerys’s voice cut smoothly between the two men, it’s low pitch edged with poisonous intent.

Qhono smiled slowly, remembrance bringing a lethality to his face.  He looked at Jon now.  _“All men fear the flame, Snow King.  But the flame, it fears the Khaleesi.”_   The Dothraki man’s eyes were hard.  _“The Khaleesi *becomes* the flame.  We will give our lives for her, the blood of our blood.”_

Jon knew the tale; Daenerys had explained how this massive Dothraki horde had come to follow her; how she had not taken just one khalasar but all khalasars at Vaas Dothrak when she had killed the khals who had imprisoned her.  She’d even had the audacity to think he would find her at fault, find her mad for killing the men who’d meant to sell her or rape her or keep her prisoner yet again.

It was quite the opposite.  She was the strongest person he’d even known.  She was like a legendary hero stepped out from one of the books of Targaryen tales that Arya had devoured endlessly.

Find her mad?  Jon had seen already the damage wrought on his sister at the hands of Ramsay Bolton.  Daenerys had fought for her very life, for her freedom, endlessly.  That wasn’t madness, that was survival, and it was a battle the King in the North was intimately familiar with.

 _“Those who do not fear her strength will not survive for long.”_ Jon let his smile lend the same brutality of the Queen’s bloodrider to his own features, the man nodding slowly as he watched the King’s hand come to rest on the pommel of Longclaw. 

Qhono returned to his food, eating with a gusto that made Jon remember all those quick, half chewed meals at the Wall.  He bid them farewell with few words, shouting to one of the other guards across the galley and making his way out.

Jon slowly looked up to see all three sets of eyes on him.  Missandei’s looked surprised and still perhaps a bit startled, Daenerys was giving him a look that said she was very close to saying something under her breath that would make him burn to haul her from the room and make her moan, and Grey Worm just chuckled softly, finishing a bite then speaking.

 ** _“Does the Queen know this one has been teaching the King Valyrian?  So you may speak with Unsullied soldiers?”_**   Grey Worm eyed Jon, then glanced down towards Missandei and Daenerys who gaped at them.  The King struggled over the words, having started learning what he could from Grey Worm when they took the occasion to spar above decks the ship.

Jon grimaced.  **_“Speaking it is…”_** Jon searched for the correct word.  **_“…difficult.”_**

“Perhaps we shall test the King’s knowledge then, Missandei.  As he’s been keeping his newfound skills such a secret, we’ll make it a bit more difficult.”  Dany didn’t look at him until she finished speaking, her voice arch and dry, but her eyes seemed quite pleased that Jon had made the effort to teach himself how to speak with those who served her, who followed her because they chose. 

How could he not?  They were coming to fight in his war, weren’t they?

Missandei’s voice sounded much like the Queen’s as she studied Grey Worm.  “Since this one is fond of secrets as well, then he shall translate for the King if the King fails to understand the phrase.” 

Grey Worm nodded, eyes sneaking to Jon’s in commiseration as he seemed to realize what Jon had; somehow this was meant to be some sort of punishment.

Daenerys smiled.  “I know comprehension comes much sooner than conversation, so I merely wish to see how much the King comprehends.  I will ask you a question in Valyrian, and you will answer in your native tongue.  Agreed, Your Grace?”

There was a hint of challenge there, and fool in love that he was it made him happy.  He enjoyed the fire inside her, it warmed him where he had been cold for far too long.

“Agreed, Your Grace.  Do you worst.”  She smirked as he said it, which made him immediately regret the taunt, because her worst usually involved teasing him into a horrible state of arousal or extreme embarrassment.

The Queen spoke, Valyrian flowing fluidly from her tongue as she asked her first question.  Jon lowered his head in thought, sorting the words out one by one to see if he could parse together meaning from the few he recognized.  “Did you ask me if I have lost my furs?”

Daenerys nodded, looking at Missandei.  “In so many words, yes.  Well done.”

The Queen spoke again, this time a bit longer and he battled with remembering the entire thing as he attempted to translate it.  “Did you ask me if I knew Tyrion sleeps?”

Now his lovely silver Queen chuckled lightly.  “Close enough, Jon Snow.  Perhaps I should make it more difficult, as Grey Worm has been a most apt teacher.”

Grey Worm dipped his head at the compliment, his gaze darting to Jon’s in pleased encouragement.

But there was a look on Dany’s face he’d started to know meant trouble, for him.  Something devious slipped across her face, and she asked an extremely long question that left Missandei giggling behind her hand and Grey Worm rubbing his eyes with his, as if he couldn’t watch.

Jon went over it again and again, so much of the question beyond his knowledge that he could only place words like ‘mouth’ and ‘man’ in the jumble.  He shook his head in defeat, Grey Worm groaning as Daenerys and Missandei fought to keep straight faces.

The Queen’s translator leaned towards the man she’d taken to sharing her own quarters with.  “You must tell your student what the Queen asked.”

The Unsullied commander’s gaze was apologetic.  “The Queen asked that you tell Missandei what it is called in Westeros when a man pleasures a woman with his mouth.”

“I am fairly certain the Queen knows exactly what that is called.”  Jon spoke to Dany instead of Grey Worm, who arched a brow at him with a twinkle in her eye.

“She merely seeks confirmation, and as the King of one of the Seven Kingdoms I thought you would be the perfect person to ask.”  Daenerys gave Jon a brilliant smile, finding it endlessly amusing how scandalized he initially was by her lack of regard for things like propriety in matters like these. 

Jon swept a hand down his face, sighing in defeat.  “I won’t deprive you of your entertainment at my expense.”  He looked at Missandei.  “In Westeros such an act is called ‘the Lord’s Kiss’, although I have never heard that one must be a Lord to participate in such.”  He cleared his throat, managing to keep his face from completely flushing.  “Does that satisfy the Queen’s request for confirmation?”

Dany looked at him then, from her seat beside him on the great long bench attached to the table, considering.  “Not quite.”  Then she asked another question, this one briefer but surely more likely to embarrass him as it sent Missandei into a fit of brief laughter that caused heads to turn at other tables.

Jon tried, truly, but it was a lost cause between the laughter at the table and the Queen’s foot, which was now sliding against his under the table.  He looked at Grey Worm sadly.  “I’m so sorry.  I doubt this is something you want to say, nor I to hear.”

The man looked at Missandei, who eyed him expectantly, then to Jon.  “The Queen asks…” He sighed.  “She asks what such an act is called when a King performs it.”

The King could not help the defeated laugh that rumbled from him, shaking his head and looking back into violet eyes that danced with mirth.  It was the strangest thing to him, really, that somehow a fool as brooding and depressing as he’d always managed to be could make someone like her happy.  So Jon would play along because this was something he found he enjoyed, even if it did cause him to blush like a young lad at times.

 _“A pleasing night for a Queen, I’d say.”_ Jon answered in Dothraki, scraping together at least a bit of his pride in his response.  And as she heard what he said Daenerys was laughing along with Missandei, shoulders shaking with it.  She rose to a knee on the bench, leaning into him and bringing their faces together. 

“What a delight you are, Jon Snow.”  She gave him a gentle kiss.  “Missandei just refers to the act as ‘many things’, at least in regard to Grey Worm.”  Now was the pretty translator’s turn to look a bit wide-eyed, gasping at the revelation, and smiling a bit sheepishly at the Unsullied commander.

“So, is that your secret then, Breaker of Chains?  Are you and Missandei telling tales about us all day when you’re supposed to be practicing with your weapons?”  Jon tried to sound scolding but even to his own ears he just sounded amused.

And Daenerys remained unruffled, as always.  “If you were not so endlessly interesting I would not feel the need to discuss you so.  That seems rather complimentary to me.”

Missandei cut in.  “I’m sure the Queen has explained that she has found the King in the North quite interesting for some time.  Since before we departed for the North, even.”

Daenerys glared playfully at her friend as Jon rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.  “Is that a fact?”

Grey Worm stood, grabbing the translator’s hand and giving Jon a curt nod.  “We should depart and give the King and Queen some privacy.”

Missandei rose and bit her lip, leaning down to whisper something to Daenerys who immediately flushed.  “I’m not telling him *that*.”  Her friend laughed, bidding them farewell as the pair left, the King and Queen now the only ones left at the long dining table.”

“Since when, Dany?”  Jon laughed as the quiet question made her shake her head, pink lips smiling in spite of the embarrassed tint on her cheeks.  The King nudged her with his shoulder.  “When.  I’m desperate to know now.”

The Queen took his hand, rising from the table and pulling him with her.  “Perhaps I ought to answer that privately.  I can’t imagine either of us remaining clothed once I do.”

Well, then.  That was certainly intriguing enough to suit him, and he happily followed, her gait quick as they snaked through the narrow halls to their chamber.  As she pushed the door open she glanced back at him, no trace of embarrassment now in her eyes, only a teasing heat that made excitement begin to pool in his stomach.  “Do you recall boldly taking me into a dark cave alone, Jon?”

A wicked smile flashed across his face, walking her backwards into the room now as his foot kicked the door back into place.  “Oh, aye Dany.  I most certainly do.”


	15. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It will take her some time to learn not to jump to the worst possible conclusion.
> 
> **credit to the lovely and talented LadyofDragonstone for the Gendry arc idea this chapter :)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway there, group boatsex gang! Such a well-behaved group deserves a longer than usual chapter as we are now 15/30 in our voyage. Annnnnnnd smut! Thank you once again for reading and boatsexing and just being amazing human beings. I treasure your feedback, of course :)
> 
> REMINDER THERE IS SMUT DO NOT EAT OR DRINK ANYTHING LESS THAN 30 MINUTES PRIOR TO NOW. The SS Jonerys is not responsible for any injury resulting from aggressive readings of boatsex or any of the chapters contained herein.

Jon Snow stood with his back to her, stars stretched above him on this rare, cloudless night.  There was a half-moon in the sky, it’s silvery light sliding across and gilding the King in the North’s heavy furs, his stance tense as he gripped the railing at the bow of the ship. 

“Decided to tell me why you’ve been avoiding me all day, then?”  Had Daenerys not already approached as closely as she had, she doubted she would have heard him.  As it was, his clipped, frustrated voice barely reached her ears, and she drew closer to stand beside him, her gloved hands grabbing the railing for support.

The Queen released a breath, trying to calm her heartbeat, guilt twisting in her stomach.  “Mostly so that I might avoid making a complete fool out of myself for no substantial reason.”

Jon, whose eyes had not strayed from the dark surf they slipped through, turned to look at her.  She kept her eyes ahead, catching his movement from her periphery.  “Davos told me what happened this morning.  With Gendry.”  She could hear the faint apology in his words, and it made her hand clench.  Jon Snow apologized far too much for liking, for things that were not always his responsibility.  And in this, he hadn’t done anything wrong.  This she knew, now.

\-----------------

Daenerys had spent the entire day puzzling out exactly how it came to be that the only living blood of the man who’d stolen the Iron Throne from her family, Robert Baratheon, was on this ship with her.  It was Davos himself who’d spoken of the young man’s lineage, Dany seated across from him and Tyrion beside her as they watched Gendry and Jon sort through the endless plans for an array of Dragonglass weapons that Gendry spent hours in his cabin drafting.

“Can’t imagine I thought I’d see the day I’d be sailing with the Dragon Queen, a Lannister, a Stark, and a Baratheon,” he’d said, a nod of his head to Gendry the only clue Daenerys had of whom Ser Davos meant.

A hot rush of anger had burned through her, irrational and fierce, and she stood.  Oh, how her hands had shaken as she’d placed them on the table in front of her.  How wide their eyes had been, Tyrion and Davos, when she’d said through clenched teeth, “Surely you are jesting, my lord.”

And Ser Davos Seaworth had merely shaken his head slowly in the negative.

Betrayal.  How bitter it tasted, in the moment the thought had pulsed through her, that she had been betrayed once more.  By all of them.  By Jon.  The King she loved, whom she would marry, still speaking with the blacksmith who bore the blood of the Usurper.

Daenerys had set her jaw, marching herself firmly from the galley and on a circuitous route around the ship, eyes narrowed and glaring at everyone she passed.  How could they have done this to her?  How could they have allowed a Baratheon aboard with out even consulting her?  Tears heated her eyes, making her even angrier.  She was a silly stupid fool. 

And she had searched for Missandei, finally, after pacing the length of the ship in an endless circuit, finding her alone in the cabin her friend shared with Grey Worm.  Her translator had been sorting lengths of fabric to be packed away for their caravan to White Harbor, but when she’d seen the look on Daenerys’s face she’d dropped the items, rushing over and shutting the door firmly.

Daenerys had expected her friend’s full sympathy, but as she spoke Missandei’s brow just furrowed.  Deeper and deeper, until the Queen finished.

“Gendry.  This is the blacksmith?”  Missandei’s voice sounded merely curious.

Daenerys nodded, restlessness driving her up from the seat she’d taken to pace the cabin, stiff woolen overcoat scratching against the skin of her neck, skin she’d thought pleasantly sensitive from the rasp of Jon’s short beard against it the previous evening.

“Forgive me if I am incorrect, but isn’t that one of the men who went beyond the wall with the King and Ser Jorah?”  Dany’s pacing slowed then, hands clasping together as she thought back to that horrible trip, of looking back over her shoulder desperate to see him break the surface of the icy water he’d been plunged in to, sacrificing himself so they could safely depart, that sick aching emptiness that had been her only companion as she’d stared out into the endless, bleak whiteness for an impossible return.  Yes, Gendry had been there, for it had been he and Davos who’d ripped those frozen furs from Jon, ice cracking noisily as the garments were stripped from him.  When she’d seen those scars for the first time.  Gendry had been there.

Slowly, very slowly, another remembrance trickled in from that awful time.  It had been Gendry who had run all the way back to Eastwatch, at Jon’s orders, the young man collapsing once he’d reached the Wall.  It had been Gendry who’d insisted a raven be sent to the Queen, at the King’s insistence, that she was their only hope for survival now.  It had been the wilding man, Tormund, who’d told her so.  Tormund, the giant red-bearded man who had been convinced Jon would return.  He had been so sure that Daenerys had remained when Jorah had gently suggested they depart, the man’s faith in Jon Snow lighting a spark of hope deep within her then, that she had not lost him as well.

“He is.”  Her hands twisted against each other now; it did not escape her that Gendry was the reason Jon Snow still drew breath, if she were honest with herself.  It wasn’t about Gendry, perhaps.  It was that it seemed the King had not thought it necessary to share this rather vital piece of information with her.  Everything was muddled; the instinct of her heart telling her there was probably a reasonable explanation, that of anyone in her life Jon Snow had never given her a reason to doubt him.  But that part of her that lurked beneath her skin, in the parts of her heart that had been blackened by deceit and treachery; that part scoffed that she’d ever believe she could trust anyone beyond herself.  Life had made that abundantly clear. 

She needed air.  She needed to breathe.  And she’d left the room before Missandei could stop her, legs racing to carry her above deck, to feel the wind on her face as she fought the conflict that roared within her. 

Jon had approached her, once, just before the midday meal to see what had kept her away that morning; as she’d heard him approach she had called out in a stern voice, “I seek my own counsel just now, King in the North, and I will not be disturbed, if you please.”  There had been silence, followed by a “Then I will not trouble you, Your Grace,” laced with confusion.

Daenerys had regretted it immediately, wanting to call after him, to just ask him to explain this to her.  She should have, she knew that.  But Jon Snow was terrifying in the capacity he could have to hurt her, to break her heart as it had never been broken before.  She had never loved anyone in the manner that she loved him, and the strength of it, the depth of it, frightened her.

But she was stubborn and so she’d stood there for at least an hour, a gentle clearing of a throat and quiet steps alerting her to another presence.  It was not Jon Snow, however, and she couldn’t help the slight disappointment when she’d found his Hand before her instead.  “Could you spare a moment for an old, thoughtless smuggler, Your Grace?”

Dany nodded before she could change her mind, curious now to see why he would seek her out instead of Jon.  Davos came closer, his own furs cinched across his shoulders tightly as the wind whipped around them both.  “I thought you knew, about Gendry.  Thought someone’d told you there at Eastwatch, or on the ship.  The lad certainly doesn’t keep it a secret; he couldn’t even pretend when I asked him not to tell the King, when I brought him back from King’s Landing with me.”  Davos cast an apologetic smile her way.

“You knew?  When you returned with him to Dragonstone?  Before the King and Jorah left for Eastwatch?”  Davos nodded resignedly, his eyes meeting hers and tinged with sadness at her questions.

“I met Gendry when he was brought to Dragonstone by Melisandre, the Red Priestess who served Stannis.”  Davos shook his head, disgust in his voice when he said the name of the very priestess who’d asked her to summon Jon.  “Poor lad didn’t even know what she wanted with him ‘til it was almost too late, ‘til she and Stannis decided to burn him at the stake as a sacrifice to her fire god.”  He looked at her now, eyes serious. 

“Can you imagine it?  The boy goes his whole life not knowing who is father is, mother dead when he was small, Lannister men chasing him on the mainland and trying to kill him.  Then that Red Bitch buys him like a slave and tells him the truth of who he is.  Who his father is.  And just when he meets his Uncle, the only family of his blood he’s been face to face with since his mother died, he tries to murder him.”  There was a fury churning within The Onion Knight that struck Daenerys, then.  Davos had served Stannis, this was something she knew, but the protective edge to the man’s voice now told her he had vehemently opposed what the Usurper’s brother had planned for his nephew.

“And yet he lives still, Ser Davos?  How did he escape the death Stannis planned for him?”  Her own conflicting emotions had settled somewhat, as she listened to the smuggler’s tale with curious ears.

Davos scratched at his neck for a moment.  “I set him free. I knew where he was from the minute I heard him speak.  Flea Bottom has a sound all it’s own, and a childhood there is the kind of shit existence that I sincerely hope you and the King can remedy.  The poorest of the poor call it home, and so did I long ago.”  Daenerys nodded slowly; Davos had defied the King he’d served then to save a boy that reminded him of home, of himself, perhaps of one of the son’s the Queen knew had been lost to him.  “All that lad’s ever done wrong is be born a bastard.  Something he had no control over.  And I can assure you, Your Grace, that he travels with us because he is loyal to the King.  To the King’s sister, as well, if you will recall.  And he believes in you, Your Grace.  He will be no traitor to the crown.”

Dany had rolled the man’s words around in her mind.  She’d rubbed her fingers along the railing thoughtfully, and finally spoke.  “Will you send him to me, Ser Davos?  I would speak with him.”

The man had nodded, and true to his word, Gendry the Usurper’s bastard had hesitantly joined her, silently waited for her to speak.  Her eyes had wandered him, wondering if this was what his father had looked like in his prime, when he’d murdered her brother on the Trident; when he’d taken the Throne amidst the blood and ruin in the aftermath of the Sack of King’s Landing. 

She also remembered asking Jon Snow, the very first day she’d met him, not to hold her accountable for the unspeakable crimes her father had committed against his family. 

“I mean you no harm, Gendry, I only wished to speak with you.”  The young man had visibly relaxed, a sigh escaping at her words.

“I don’t believe anyone meant to keep me a secret from you, Your Grace.  I thought you knew.”  His tone had been so distraught that she hadn’t been able to help giving him a small, reassuring smile.

“That’s what I keep hearing.”  Daenerys had broken her gaze from his relieved face.  “Why are you here, Gendry?”  She’d kept her head forward, eyes closed as if that would help her detect deceit if it was there in his answer.

“I apprenticed with Tohbo Mott for ten years in King’s Landing.  He was one of the finest blacksmiths in the Seven Kingdoms.”  Gendry had paused, clearing his throat.  “If those Lannister Goldcloaks hadn’t hunted me, I might’ve still been there.  There were fifteen others, you know.”  Now she’d had turn and look at him.  Surely he hadn’t meant what she thought he meant.

But he had.  She’d felt sick with the disgust of it, another monstrous act by the False Queen who sat on Dany’s Throne.  “Of Robert’s bastards.  I’m the only one they didn’t manage to kill.  Some they tore from their mother’s arms and murdered right then and there.”  Gendry’d shaken his head, eyes dipping down before meeting hers once more, something firm and true in his eyes and his voice now.

“The King’s sister was more family to me than I’d ever had, besides my mum.  She begged me to go to Winterfell, with her.  She was sure the Starks would give me a place there, a home.  I didn’t believe her.”  He’d shaken his head.  “They all seem a bit to good to be real.  No one has that kind of honor.  No one would give a bastard from Flea Bottom a place in their home.”  Gendry met her eyes.  “Robb Stark was King in the North then.  I can’t say as to whether he would have done what Arya promised.  But then Davos took me to meet her other brother.  The brother she spoke about when she practiced with the little sword he’d given her before he left for the Wall.  The brother who was her father’s bastard but her favorite, because he was different and so was she.”

The Starks, Daenerys had thought silently then, made everyone else pale in comparison when it came to what they were at the very core of their beings.  They were good, but just.  Kind, but protective of their own.  Truthful, even if it was brutal.  And they would defend those they loved even if it meant their own death.  Yes, Dany had understood why Gendry had not believed Jon’s small, lethal sister.  Jon seemed a bit unreal to her at times, as well.

“They are annoyingly noble.”  Dany’s dry tone had made Gendry bark out a laugh.

“The King in the North is a good man.  And if even he neglected to tell you whose blood I share, I reckon it’s because he thought you already knew as well.”  The blacksmith had sounded sure, no waver of hesitation as he spoke now.

Daenerys had just stood there silently for a few moments, breathing slowly in and out, mulling over Davos’s words and Gendry’s.  There was a good likelihood, and ever-increasing surety here, that Jon had no idea Dany was not aware of Gendry’s Baratheon blood. 

She’d just assumed the worst, as she always did, because the worst was usually the truth.

“Did you know that the Baratheons and Targaryens share common blood?”  Gendry had shaken his head at her question, brows furrowed.  “Orys Baratheon was a Targaryen bastard who went on to found his own House.  He even served as Hand to Aegon the Conqueror.  So it would seem you have found family once more, however distantly related we may be.  And we will make war together, as our ancestors once did.” 

Gendry’s eyes had been wide and round, darting about as her words sank in.  “In that case, reckon we’ll have to make sure we win.”  His eyes had drifted to hers, calmer than they’d been now than when he’d approached her, and he’d flashed her a grin.  “They fought together, and won.  We can’t be the ones who muck it all up.”

She had laughed then, small but real, and Gendry had taken his leave.

Daenerys had indeed avoided Jon for the rest of the day, upset more with herself now than anything, that at the first test of her feelings for him she had reacted instinctively instead of listening to her head or her heart, letting the past dictate her response instead of the present.

Jon Snow deserved better than that from her, and she was ashamed.

\------------

“My apologies, Jon.”  She looked at him, now, his eyes dark in the shadows cast on his face by the moonlight as they now faced each other on the deck.  Dany stepped forward now, her pale hands grasping the edges of the furs he wore, but waiting to see if he would let her take the place she liked most.

She would learn not to doubt him, eventually, she mused, as he merely gave her a half smile and nodded.  Daenerys did not hesitate, wrapping her arms around him as the furs dropped around her shoulders, his scent and the feel of him solid against her making her swallow hard as she leaned her head against his chest.  He brought his arms around her in return, hugging her to him, his nose dipping down to smell her hair, his lips dropping a kiss onto the crown of her head.

“You thought I knew, didn’t you?”  Dany did not need to clarify further; he knew what she meant, and his arms tightened around her.

“Aye.”  He chuckled.  “I wasn’t quite sure what happened before I woke up after Eastwatch, but I did assume someone had told you.  Thought it might’ve been Gendry himself, to be honest.  He doesn’t seem to keep many secrets.”  Jon’s hand was at her jaw, tipping her face up to bring her eyes to his.  “And I believe I have mentioned that Ser Davos tends to get carried away.”

Daenerys brought a gentle hand up, thumb tracing the angle of his cheek and jaw, her hand sliding to his neck.  “I fear that my mind has not quite caught up to my heart, Jon Snow, when it comes to you.  It is difficult for me to trust that you are everything I believe you to be, even now.  I must request your patience in that regard.”

“Dany.”  His voice was low, rough, both hands cupping her jaw now so that she could not look away.  “I have been betrayed more times than I care to think on, as have you.  I love you, and you love me.  But trust takes time to build; Do you honestly think I would expect you to never doubt my intent after all you have experienced?”

Her eyes burned now, throat closing up as she struggled to keep her breathing even, struggled against tears that threatened to spill.  “I do not deserve you, Jon.”

Jon just shook his head, disbelief washing over his features at her quiet murmur.  “Stop that.”  She could feel his hands shaking slightly as he kept a firm grip on her face.  “You deserve far more than I could ever hope to give you, far better than the life you have had.  You deserve your throne.  And yet you have given that up to come North, to save your people.  Our people.”  He pressed his lips to her forehead, the tip of her nose, finally her lips in a tender kiss that made her sigh against his mouth. 

The King released her mouth, one hand sliding to the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair, and he held her to his chest, his other hand smoothing a trail along her back under the cover of those heavy furs of his.  She wanted him then, in that moment, in a way that made her feel as if she were drowning with it; Daenerys wanted his mouth, his hands, his body, that was not a new feeling for her, but it was joined with a deep ache in her chest that craved his heart, his goodness, his bravery. 

“May I confess a terrible secret, Jon?”  Her cheek was still pressed against his chest, listening to the heart that beat beneath all those layers, beneath the scar that marked the end of his life once.

Jon’s hand did not still against her back, and he merely whispered, “Of course.”

“I am ashamed to admit that I have found certain merit to the idea of kidnapping the King in the North and taking him far away from all of this.”  She paused, raising her head from his chest to meet his eyes as he snorted, silent laughter shaking his chest.  “Then I can have you all to myself.  Dreadfully selfish for a Queen.  You must promise not to tell lest they all fear a true Stark abduction by a Targaryen at last.”  She was chuckling now as she spoke, hands rising to grasp the collar of his furs and pulling him down to kiss him more soundly.

The King’s lips were warm, but she did not linger upon them long, her tongue quickly slipping across the seam of them and he did not hesitate to open to her, his tongue finding hers and slipping softly against it.  She moaned at it, a light teasing curling of his tongue against hers making her ache for it everywhere.  Dany indulged herself for a few moments more, until the heat building inside of her demanded she take him somewhere she could see him and touch him and lose herself in everything that he was.

Jon must have felt similarly, for he was suddenly pulling his mouth from hers, eyes dark and hungry as they slid across her face, the hand on her back venturing lower with each pass.  She could not help but press herself more fully into him, could not help but raise her lips to his neck, tongue and teeth tasting him as she slid her hand down to trace the hard length of him now evident against her.

“Come on then, and keep your wicked hands to yourself, Your Grace.”  Jon stepped back, and she felt the momentary loss of warmth from his furs before he grabbed her hand, pulling firmly as he strode towards the stairs, towards their chambers. 

\-------------

The King in the North had made short work of his own clothing as soon as the door to their chambers was closed and locked, and Daenerys was surprised to see that she was the one who needed to hasten her pace as she slipped off her woolen coat, just a tunic and leggings remaining as a barrier to the sensation of his body pressed completely against hers.  She allowed her eyes to travel slowly up his body as he approached her, silently pulling her hands away from the hem of the tunic and replacing them with his own.  Where she had intended to whisk it quickly over her head, though, he slowl inched the fabric up, fingers tracing fire along the sensitive skin of her stomach and skating up along her ribs before Jon finally pulled the garment from her body. 

His swift exhale of breath was chased immediately by his hands gripping her waist and lifting her up onto the bed, laying her back as he crawled up beside her.  Daenerys brought her hands to him immediately, gripping his neck and dragging his mouth to hers in a kiss that was no longer the sweet tease of before, her tongue stroking against his ardently as he braced himself above her on his forearms. 

The Queen could not help but arch her hips against his as he settled between her thighs, at the feel of his hard cock pressed against her center through the leggings she still wore, and his moan was ragged as he rolled onto his side.  His hand slipped teasingly over the slope of her breast as his lips travelled up her neck.  “Oh, no.  I know your tricks, Dany.”  His words vibrated against her ear before his tongue flicked it teasingly, then nipped it between gentle teeth. 

Jon grasped her hands then, joining their fingers and trailing them together down to her sides.  He released her hands to grasp her wrists, tucking her hands palm down under her back, pinning them with her body.  “Leave them there, Dany, I won’t have you rushing me.”  His dark head dropped to her navel, tongue dipping in and making her writhe, her fingers gripping the sheets beneath her as she fought the urge to touch him, guide him where she wanted him.  Jon’s lips trailed up between her breasts, and she groaned loudly as he trapped the hard peak of a nipple between his lips, sucking firmly then mouthing her flesh wetly, tongue teasing in a circle around the sensitive tip as she panted his name.

The King’s tongue laved a long, wet trail from her collar bone up the column of her neck, then reached above her to grab a pillow and tuck it under her head.  “I will have you watch me, though.  I want you to see everything I do to you.”  She could only whimper as he moved back down her body, her eyes hotly tracking the path of his mouth and hands as he returned to her breasts, his hands cupping them firmly, fingers fanning to trap a nipple between them and pinching and squeezing.  The sight of those rough, strong hands kneading and squeezing, his mouth dropping to lick at her flesh where it peaked between his fingers before dropping a hand and flicking his tongue against her nipple was enough to make her cry out, helpless to this exquisite torture so long as she was able to honor his request to keep her hands firmly to herself.

Gods, his eyes were consuming her, watching as he sucked the dusky pink peak between his lips and into his mouth, her back arching, begging for more.  A hand teased her other breast simultaneously, finger slipping over her nipple with increasingly rapid flicks then pulling gently, rolling the tip between finger and thumb, never pausing as he watched her face react to his touch.

“Jon…Jon…”  Her head tossed against the pillow now, needing her damned leggings off, needing his hands to play against her, his cock to fill her, anything to ease the ache within her that wanted him to grant her the release he was now well-practiced in bringing her.  His tongue trailed down her stomach to lick along the waist of her leggings before his hands grasped them, stripping them off quickly and spreading her knees apart before she knew quite what was happening.  Daenerys looked down to see a sinful smile on those beautiful lips of his before they were on her, his tongue parting her folds and his eyes closing as he moaned at the taste of her.  She was reduced to gasping and moaning, his eyes snapping open once more, and it was impossible to look away as he sealed his lips against her then, suckling at her clit then soothing with his tongue, over and over, hands gripping her hips so that she could only barely circle them against his mouth.  Then he backed off, ignoring her whimper as he stiffened his tongue and drove it into her, thrusting teasingly into her core as one hand left her hip to trail down to her inner thigh.  Jon’s tongue slid back up to tease at the sensitive bud there once more, two fingers suddenly entering her slick, tight heat and she desperately tried not to shout as he mimicked what she wanted him to do with his cock, fingers driving into her, his tongue flicking over her clit again and again, eyes daring her to let go, and she did, harsh sobbing cries breaking free as she pulsed against his fingers, pleasure rippling sharply from her center and up her spine, tickling through her veins. 

And he kept watching, she saw, eyes creeping open once more to see him studying her with such hunger and intensity that the need for him inside her, even as she came down from release, was a gnawing beast that snarled to be fed, prompting her to growl through her teeth, “Get up here.”

Jon made his way up slowly, kissing and licking along her hips and abdomen, and his hands slowly drew hers out from under her body as he stopped to bite gently at a nipple.

And she reached her limit.  She slid sinuously out from under him, hands shooting out to help her roll him onto his back suddenly and he looked surprised for a moment before grinning, teeth flashing at her as he lay his head back on the pillows to see her crawling up him now.  Dany had no more patience for teasing, and as her eyes travelled the length of him she could see how ready he was, length pulsing slightly with his heartbeat, flushed and hard.  She watched him as he had her, eyes only on his face now as she fisted her hand around him, his mouth falling open with pleasure that looked to be approaching agony from the way his face twisted, his hands gripped the sheets at his sides.  Her thumb swirled along the head of his cock as she reached the tip, a guttural moan ripping out of him at the slow, wet circle she drew on his skin.

Daenerys rose over and above him, finally, desperate to have him inside her, and her eyes met his again as she slowly lowered herself onto his cock, his eyes dropping from hers to watch as he slid inside her inch by inch, until she was flush against him.  She pulled his hands to her breasts, waiting until he began to tease and tug at her once more before she rose, taking her time as he had with her pace, withdrawing until he was nearly unseated from her before sliding herself achingly slowly onto him.

She could feel him tensing, the slow speed with which she took him into her still driving him closer to the edge, and she began riding him faster, more forcefully as his grip tightened on her chest, nipples tweaked and rolled and pulled as she moaned and bit at her lip, fighting to keep her eyes open, wanting to see his this time, to see him in the throes of pleasure she was giving him.  As he stared back she braced one hand on his chest, her other sliding slowly between her legs, his breathing increasingly ragged as he watched her tease at her clit just above where she now drove herself onto him harder, faster, his hands still teasing her nipples until he dropped them down to her hips.

“Oh, Dany.”  His eyes never left her fingers as she stroked herself.  “Fucking hell.”  Jon used his grip on the flare of her hips to drive them onto his, with each downstroke of her sheath onto his, and it was just that much deeper, desire sparking along her nerves and tightening within her womb as she rode him with abandon now, mouth caught open in a soundless cry as she came, climax taking her suddenly and fiercely, the rippling and clenching of her walls against him making him thrust roughly up and into her as he cried out as well, her name deep and harsh as his hips tensed and stilled, jerking against her as she felt his release fill her in a flood of warmth.

Daenerys felt boneless, and gave up trying to keep herself upright, leaning her hot cheek against his chest, loathe to pull away from him just yet, savoring the feel of having him inside of her for as long as he would allow.

“Dany.”  His whisper brought her head up, just able to see his eyes from this angle as he tipped his head down.  “Next time, you might try just telling me what’s wrong, love.”

She closed her eyes, sighing against his chest and kissing the sweat dampened skin there.  “I’ll keep that in mind.”


	16. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon isn’t convinced about all of this “blood of the dragon” business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 16, amigos. Don’t forget, tonight is our fermented crab buffet on the main deck, and in the Headliners Room The Hound will be performing his one-man show, “Fuck Gingers, and Fuck You, now Fuck Off”.

The rain that had pounded against the windows in the pre-dawn hours had turned over into snow, now, and Jon reckoned they were far enough north that the deckhands were going to find themselves very busy keeping walkways clear for the rest of the voyage to White Harbor.

He looked across the deck to Daenerys, who was blinking fat, wet flakes out of her eyes with Missandei and Grey Worm. The couple were laughing with the Queen at the sight of the white cold powder that had collected on the railings and the wooden planks they stood upon.

Jon realized that the Unsullied Commander and the Queen’s dearest friend had likely never seen snow before.  Daenerys had, of course, but Eastwatch had been different.  

He crossed the decking, shaking his head at the sight of Missandei and Grey Worm warmly dressed with furs, while Daenerys wore only the white overcoat he remembered from her doomed rescue mission north of the Wall.

”You’d better get another layer or two on, *Your Grace*, or you’re likely to freeze out here.”  Daenerys just smirked at him, walking over to meet him and taking his gloved hand in hers to rejoin the couple that still stood examining the snow with a hint of wonder on their faces.

“I am the blood of the dragon, *Your Grace*.  I do not fear the cold.”  Jon squeezed her hand with his, watching as Grey Worm scooped a palmful of snow from the decking, the heat from the man’s uncovered skin melting it slowly as he held it.  He dropped Dany’s hand then, crouching to gather as much as he could into a handful of snow himself and shaping it between covered fingers.

“When I was young…when we all were, my brothers and sisters and I, we loved when it would snow.  Awfully fun to play in when you’re a child.”  His hands opened to show them all a loosely packed ball of snow.

Daenerys looked mystified at the sight.  “Play how, exactly?  That doesn’t look like it would hold together well enough to be caught.”

Jon smiled, a thought occurring to him that was more daring than he might have otherwise risked; But if there was ever a time to indulge in things unbecoming of their stations it was here, on this boat, away from all the wars they would need to fight both to the North and to the South.  He probably wouldn’t have a chance like this again, and what he was considering was not something he’d do in front of all those Northern Lords who’d thought he’d get himself killed seeking the aid of Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons and armies.

Besides that, he mused, the blood of the dragon does not fear the cold.  Allegedly.

“It’s not meant to be caught, my Queen.  But it is meant to be thrown.”  And he tossed it right at her, not with enough velocity to hurt when it made contact, but enough to get the snowball to it’s intended destination as it smacked into her forehead.  The ball broke apart on contact with her skin, disintegrating and throwing flecks of snow in all directions, leaving clumps of white powder on the Queen’s face as she spluttered in shock.

Jon held his breath, wondering if he’d gone a bit too far as she stared at him, stone-faced.  One small, gloved hand swiped along her brow and nose, clearing any lingering snow and he watched as her eyes narrowed.  And Jon was worried, then, very worried, until he glanced along her lips and saw the line of her cheek concave in a bit.  She was biting her cheek not to laugh.

And then the Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms leaned down, slowly, intentionally, filling her small palm with as much snow as she could manage, and formed her hands around it just as he had demonstrated.  Jon risked a glance to Missandei and Grey Worm, the Queen’s translator covering her mouth with her hand, shoulders shaking just a bit as she tried to quiet her laugh.

But Daenerys would not be distracted, her eyes locked on to him as she drew closer, still some distance between them as she finished working her hands, a much more tightly packed ball of snow appearing in her grip.  “You’re going to regret that, Jon Snow.” 

“I’ll give you one free shot, Dany.  Have at it.”  Jon closed his eyes and waited for the hit, not even starting at the freezing impact to his face that scattered snow and water into his hair and across his skin, just sliding a hand to gather it off his skin.  He smiled as she approached.  “Next time I’ll not be such a still target.”

“No, I would expect not.”  She knelt, gathering another handful, forming it as she came close to whisper to him now.  Jon could see Grey Worm kneeling as well, gathering snow into his hand as Missandei watched rather suspiciously. 

“D’you think I can get Missandei from here?”  Jon’s eyes shot down to her face at the whisper, smiling fiendishly as she kept this one packed a bit looser than the one she’d launched at him. 

He eyed the distance, then nodded and said from the corner of his mouth, “Watch the wind, and put a little more arm behind it from here.”  Jon hastily refilled his hand, packing it quickly.  “I’ll take care of Grey Worm.”  At that she finally laughed, leaning up to press a quick, hard kiss to his lips.  She nodded smartly as she pulled back, then turned, throwing the packed snow at Missandei who screeched at it struck her neck and chest, both covered but still spraying her face with frozen droplets of water at the impact. 

Grey Worm laughed, then, but only momentarily as the snowball Jon threw hit the side of his closely shaven head and fell apart.  As Jon and Daenerys watched, the two turned and looked at each other, then back at the King and Queen as they leaned down to create another round of weapons.

Daenerys looked at him wide-eyed, and burst into merry laughter, shouting “Run!” and grabbing his hand, pulling him with her to duck behind a flat of crates lashed together along the outer walls of the main cabin.  Jon began to quickly form as many snowballs as he could, but his work was interrupted by her hot mouth on his, her tongue sliding between his parted lips and stroking against his with abandon.  The prior mission was quickly forgotten, as there was no focus for him but her now, tasting the warm sweetness of her mouth, giving quick teasing glances of his tongue against hers until she moaned.

She finally broke the kiss, breath puffing out against his wet lips as she whispered, “Now we make war, my King.”

\---------------

Much later, after the four had tired of their campaign of icy warfare, after Tyrion’s furious protests that they conduct themselves with some *semblance* of propriety; after Gendry had found them and hunted Ser Davos to drop a handful of snow down the back of the smuggler’s cloak; after the Hound had told them all resoundingly to fuck off after Jon had hit him directly in the back of the head as he’d stood at the railing, none of them realizing he’d been taking a piss off the side of the boat; it was then that he’d held her hands between his, rubbing them briskly to ward off any lingering chill from hours spent out in the kind of conditions he was intimately familiar with.

“Blood of the dragon, you said?”  He raised her fingers, sandwiched between his, to his lips, blowing hot air onto their joined hands.  Jon shook his head at the thought, kissing the tip of each of her fingertips as she watched.  “You have to be careful, Dany, in the kind of cold we’re heading into.  I’ve seen men lose fingers, toes…”  Here he paused, tapping a finger to the tip of her nose.  “Even that, quicker than you could realize because you’re too numb from the cold to notice that you can’t feel those parts anymore.”

Daenerys smiled softly, leaning in to grasp his hand between hers, repeating his actions even though it wasn’t necessary, the feel of her kissing the tips of his fingers more important to him than mentioning that the cold truly didn’t affect him as severely as it did others; any other man shouldn’t have survived the fall into that icy, frigid water, and certainly wouldn’t have been able to pull themselves out and ride back to Eastwatch in frozen furs and yet still breath.  His father had been likewise unaffected, sometimes walking around Winterfell in far fewer layers than his ladywife, who complained bitterly from the chill even inside those heated walls.  Perhaps it was in the blood.

“I’ll make sure to take care, Jon.”  She kissed his thumb, then pulled his hand to the warm, soft fullness of her breast, nipple already hard and peaked through the shift she wore.  “Perhaps we’d better make sure your hands are still in good shape, though.”

Jon grinned, his other hand snaking over to slide beneath her shift as well, cupping her other breast and kneading softly as she arched against him.  “If we’re going to check one we may as well check the other.”


	17. Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality is a real bitch sometimes

**_Daenerys_ **

Daenerys knew Tyrion wanted to speak with her.  Alone.  He’d been loitering around all morning, trying to catch her without Jon by her side, but that was a state she very much enjoyed, and so she’d been reluctant to separate from him until she saw she could avoid her Hand no more.

Not that he’d asked her outright; No, Tyrion preferred a passive approach and so she did not seek him out when she was finally alone above deck, but she made sure Missandei let him know where to find her.  If he wanted to be dealt with directly he would need to start dealing directly with her.

“You are a difficult Queen to find without company, Your Grace.”  A glance to her side revealed the man himself, face tense as he stepped up beside her to lean against the railing, arms braced in front of him.

“Well, it would seem your luck has turned, my Lord.”  She sighed, knowing from the grim set of his lips she wasn’t going to enjoy this conversation.  “Say what you wish to say and let us be done with it.”

Tyrion’s head bowed briefly, an exhale and the tightening of his hands on the rail before him preceding his words.  “I am concerned that your infatuation with the King, and his with you, will cost you your life.  That the moment he is in danger, which he will *inevitably* be…”  Tyrion trailed off, raising his eyes to hers.  “I swore to serve you, to advise you.  And the King in the North is just the sort of noble, brave hero that will risk his life as soon as the opportunity presents itself.  I fear his recklessness with his own life will end yours as well, and I meant what I said on that cliff, my Queen.  If you die, we’re all lost.”

Daenerys looked down at her own gloved hands, fingers wrapped around the rail with all her strength.  She understood his concerns, truly she did.  If they were sailing to make her war for the Throne, she would consider his words more closely.  Tyrion didn’t know the truth of what they were about to do, the sheer size and scope of the fight she was joining her forces to.  Tyrion had seen one foot soldier in the Night King’s army.  But she had seen it all. 

“You fear I will put my duty aside for love.”  Daenerys felt her lips twist in something that felt more like a grimace than a smile.  “We find ourselves in very unchartered territory now, my Lord.  I have never waged a war like this.  Neither have you.  And still I have brought the entire might of my forces because that is my duty.  It is my duty as a Queen to protect my people, to fight for them.”  She turned her face to his, now, as he kept his silence.  “One hundred thousand dead men marching towards us may have been a conservative estimate.  Let us not pretend that this is anything we have faced before.”

Tyrion nodded, but still grimaced in return.  “I know.  And I still believe that a marital alliance is in both your best interests.  I do not wish to ruin whatever happiness you have been able to find in the face of all this.  But you cannot sacrifice yourself to save him.  You must find a way to survive this.”

“Perhaps this war was not meant to be survived, Tyrion.  The Night King has already killed one of my dragons, and of the two that remain I may only ride Drogon.  I am almost certainly leading all those who follow me into certain death.  Do you suppose I take that lightly my Lord?  That I would throw aside all thought for them because you think me some lovestruck girl?”  She could feel anger rising in her chest, hot and pulsing as she spoke; As if she did not live with the weight of it every day, as if every sunrise brought her one dawn closer to so very many deaths.  As if she had a choice.

Tyrion looked pained.  “Just take care.  Care of your head, and your heart.  Do not become so lost in each other that this fight becomes harder than it already is.”  Daenerys just waited, her Hand seeming to be gathering courage before speaking once more.  “Is there no way to ensure the safety of your two remaining dragons?  Armor or something of that nature?”

Daenerys looked to the sky, wishing the clouds would part so she could see her children high above.  She could feel them, though, the fire of them singing through her veins as it did whenever they were near.  “Perhaps.  Drogon will always be safer than Rhaegal.  A dragon with no rider has no leader.  But I will find Gendry, ask what may be possible to protect from any more of the Night King’s weapons.”  

Tyrion nodded, scratching at his beard thoughtfully.  “I will say no more, then.  I do not ask you to put love aside.  I only ask that you try to keep your perspective clear, for your sake, and for his.”

\-------------------

Jon found her seated beside the small grate in their chambers, fire blazing merrily, a contrast to the ice she felt in her heart now, reality crashing into this beautiful wall of love and heat she’d built between the two of them and all the rest.  She stared into the flames, despondent, not even looking up as he entered, but hearing him approach her and take a seat beside on her on the rugs spread across the floor.

“Dany.”  She felt hot tears fill her eyes, the way he said her name having become something she needed.  The rough, low pitch of his voice filled something inside her, and it had been so easy to pretend that they had all the time in the world, that nothing existed for now but them, but she knew the truth: this was war and there was a good chance the day would come, very soon, where she would never hear his voice again.

Jon’s hand slipped against her cheek, turning her face to his, and she saw his chest catch on a breath when he saw she was crying.  “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head, lips pressing together as she felt the sting of tears, finally felt them tracking down her face, and she couldn’t find the words.  She didn’t know how to say that he was the only thing she truly feared losing, now.  She had grieved Viserion’s death, as she would grieve for Rhaegal should he fall, and especially Drogon.  There was shame in that, for her, a trace at least.  Her dragons were her children, but when she thought now on living in a world without Jon, grief choked the very breath from her lungs.

Jon just stared into her eyes, not speaking, for what seemed forever.  Then she saw it; she saw he knew what was wrong, saw his jaw clench and work as he ground his teeth against it, that awful reality that was waiting for them both, the bitter truth that had danced along the edges of their time together.  The odds that they would both survive this fight were impossibly small.

He did not speak, just pulled her onto his lap, arms banding strong as steel around her as he held her to him, and buried his head in the warm skin of her neck as she wrapped her arms around his neck to pull herself as close to him as she could, legs straddling his sides.  And he did not speak as she began to cry in earnest, the feel of him against her and around her sharpening into a pain that made her ache with sorrow and love. 

Jon did not speak, but she could feel his hot tears against her neck now, could feel the slight shake of his shoulders as he fought back the sobs she now let out.

He did not speak, and she did not need him to.  He loved her, and she loved him.  And they were running out of time.  She stroked her hands along his shoulders and neck, trying to memorize the feel of him, his smell, what his hands felt like against her. 

She tried to calm herself, pulling back from him slightly and waiting until he raised his head, his eyes miserable but full of love.  She wanted to laugh, that at least she was not alone in this awful beautiful thing that had grown between them.  Her hands bracketed his face.

“Kiss me, Jon.  I want to forget for awhile.”

\------------

**_Tyrion_ **

The Queen’s Hand found Varys in the galley, staring out the window at the gloomy sky above, but casting a quick look at Tyrion as he entered the room.

“You seem troubled, Lord Hand.”  The eunuch’s smooth voice belied the interest in his eyes.

Dread filled Tyrion’s chest.  They would have to do this.  For the good of the realm.  For the safety of the Queen, and even the King.  For the best chance to win this war.

The forces that fought for the living would need two Targaryens on dragons, not one.

“We must tell Jon Snow the truth, Lord Varys.  Or I fear this war will be lost.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, we're doing this. Hold on to your asses, seafaring travelers!


	18. Ice and Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some truth, some smut. You knew what you signed up for when you boarded this ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone brought snacks, it's a longer chapter than usual.  
> THERE IS SMUT DO NOT FORGET THE THIRTY MINUTE RULE  
> IF YOU CRAMP UP DO NOT BLAME ME  
> Lifevests on, amigos, now jump in!

It struck Jon as strange, on the face of it, for Varys to ask to meet with them at dawn.  He’d have preferred remaining in the bed he shared with Dany, grasping every spare moment with her to commit to memory, to ease the ache inside that told him that this brief respite would end all to soon, and so if given a choice he would have opted to run his hands along her skin, or bury his face in her hair, or himself inside her once more.

Instead they were here, above decks, alone save for Davos and Tyrion and Varys.  Davos seemed as confused as Jon was, but Tyrion and Varys wore looks filled with such trepidation that he grasped Daenerys hand a bit tighter, where it was tucked into his elbow, their eyes catching and meeting before turning back to the Hand of the Queen and the Master of Whispers.

Varys did not hesitate, beginning to speak without preamble, and that he addressed Jon first caught him off guard.  “There is a question, Jon Snow, that you have never been given an answer to.  A question that remains one of the biggest mysteries in all of Westeros.  Do you know what that question is?”

A great heavy weight sank in his gut, dread and curiosity swirling inside him.  He could feel the Queen’s eyes on him from where she was tight against his side.  He knew the question, all too well.

“Who is my mother?”  Varys nodded at the King’s somewhat clipped tones, and he could feel himself tense under the man’s careful scrutiny.  That question was the one his father had sworn to answer, when they’d last parted ways, and he had taken that truth to the grave.  Since then it wasn’t something that plagued Jon as it had when he was a boy, but then he’d been rather distracted by dying and battle, without much time to spare regarding a question he’d come to believe he would never have an answer to.

But Varys would not ask unless he knew, Jon realized that, and the hunger to know that part of himself, that one piece of knowledge he’d once craved above all else, it roared to life within him now.

“When your father was being held in the Red Keep, I went to him, you know.  I tried to convince him to lie, you see, to save his own life.”  Varys gave a dry laugh.  “He asked me if I thought his life was some precious thing to him, that I would think he would trade his own honor for it.  He said he learned how to die a long time ago.”

Jon was not prepared to hear that, his father’s words from Lord Varys’s lips, and his chest gave a great heave as he fought the grief he’d buried years ago at the loss of the best man he’d ever known.  “Why do you tell me this?”  It was hard for Jon to know if he was as angry as he sounded then, so many long-buried emotions burning through him, but he held his tongue as the Spider spoke once more.  There was kindness there, on the eunuch’s face, but it only deepened the dread growing in Jon’s heart.

“Because I want you to know, more so than you do now, that Ned Stark was a man who would not trade his honor to save his own life.  Because a very long, long time ago, King in the North, Ned Stark told a lie.  One lie, from an honorable man, at a time when he’d lost almost everything.  One lie, told to save.  Told for love.”  As that smooth, calm voice continued, Jon could feel Daenerys pull her hand from his arm, and he looked down, bereft, only to see her tuck herself under his arm completely, wrapping her arms around his waist and staring at Tyrion and Varys with suspicious eyes.

“You are a Stark, Jon Snow, of that there is no doubt at all.  You are a wolf of Winterfell.  But you have never been a bastard.” 

Jon looked from the two men who were watching him carefully to Daenerys, who gazed at him in surprise, her head tilting to the side as she directed her attention back to Varys.  “What are you playing at?”

Varys walked closer, till he was within arms reach of Jon, and looked directly into his eyes.  “This is no game, Jon Snow.  This is about a secret so fraught with peril, so dangerous in it’s truth, that it drove your Uncle Benjen to the Wall.  It kept Howland Reed little more than a prisoner after the Rebellion; to this day he rarely leaves Greywater Watch.  A secret so wonderful, and so terrible, that Lord Eddard Stark let the world believe he had shamed his lady wife rather than reveal the truth.” 

Jon was shaking; never, in the years that he had dreamed of learning the truth of his mother’s identity,  had anything now being spoken even entered his mind.  It made no sense.  Why would his father lie about his birth?  And how could the Spider pretend such, as to say that he was no bastard at all?  There wasn’t any getting around that, not in Jon’s mind.  It was a truth he had learned to live with.

“Then tell us, Lord Varys.  The truth of it.  Tell the King what you brought us here to tell him.”  Davos’s gruff voice sounded from behind Jon’s shoulder, and he came to stand on Jon’s other side, the Queen and the Onion Knight now at each shoulder.

“You are a trueborn son of House Stark, Jon Snow.  But it is through your mother’s blood, not your father’s.”   

Jon could see the eunuch’s lips moving.  He knew the man was saying something.  But everything stopped, just then, and there was no sound in his ears but a dull ringing.  He’d felt this before.  It was like taking a hard blow to the head, but unlike a physical blow he was not sure this was going to be something he could recover from.

Jon shook his head, holding up a hand to halt Varys.  He just stood, breathing deep, gathering himself.  He turned his head at a tug on his hand, and leaned down as Daenerys rose up on her toes. 

“You do not have to hear this, Jon, if you do not wish it.  Shall I order him to stop?”  Her whispering voice in his ear gave a blessed moment of distraction from the maelstrom he felt trapped in.  But he was no young boy, leaving the only home he’d known to take the black, content to hear a promise of truth instead of the truth itself.  He was a man now, and he had been for some time.  And he had learned, above all else, that hard truths were still preferable over kind lies.

“I wish to hear the truth.  It may not be to my liking but I will hear it all the same.”  She nodded at his quiet response, taking his hand in hers now and lacing their fingers together as she turned her eyes to Varys.

And it was Daenerys who addressed Varys now, eyes narrowed.  “Her name, Varys.”  The eunuch looked from the Queen to her Hand, the small man nodding in agreement, and then the Spider’s gaze returned to Jon.

Jon knew what he was going to say.  There was no other trueborn Stark woman to mother him all those years ago except one.  And he credited himself that he did not even flinch when Varys confirmed his suspicions with his next answer.

“The Lady Lyanna Stark.”  He heard the Queen’s quick intake of breath as the eunuch spoke, her hand tightening on his. 

The King in the North just swallowed hard and said, “Then I will assume that Lord Stark was not my father.”  He gripped Dany’s hand hard as his voice broke over the words, eyes dry but throat constricting as he felt his entire life fall to pieces in his mind.

It was Tyrion who answered, and Jon could hear sympathy in the dwarf’s voice.  Of everyone here, Tyrion had been in Jon’s home all those years ago with his family, had known him the longest, perhaps had some idea of what this would do to him. 

“Not of your blood, Jon.  But still your father.  The man who raised you, cared for you, protected you.”  Tyrion was right.  Jon knew that.  He’d practically told Theon the same thing, hadn’t he?  But that left one remaining question, and the King in the North suspected he knew the answer to it as well.  Varys could not have been clearer, days prior, about the fate of Lyanna Stark. 

But he would ask, and have it said, and then he would deal with what it meant, what any of it meant.  If it meant anything at all, really.

“And the father of my blood, Lord Varys?  What say you of him?”  Jon did not look at the Spider.  He turned to face Daenerys, holding both her hands in his, their eyes focused only on each other now; she knew as well, she’d put the pieces together just as he had, as soon as his mother’s name had crossed the eunuch’s lips.

“The Crown Prince of Dragonstone, Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Everything went cold, just for a moment; something shifted then, Jon thought, perhaps the pieces of his life that had fit neatly if not miserably in the frame of who he had been sliding against each other, aligning into something altogether new: the truth of who he was.  Who he really was.  Not the Bastard of Winterfell.  Not Jon Snow, northern bastard, hated by his father’s wife and outcast. 

“Are you certain about this, Varys?”  Davos spoke up once more, voice gruff and concerned. 

Jon did not need to ask.  He knew this was true.  He thought back to that day on the cliffs, Drogon charging, and he had been afraid, for a moment.  But instinct had taken over, something his body had known but his mind had not.  Drogon had known, Jon realized now.  He had sensed that in Jon which he couldn’t have dreamed of knowing about himself.

The King did not hear the response to his Hand’s question.  He did not see their advisors around him.  He only saw her, the woman he loved most, the Queen who would be his wife.  Her amethyst eyes searched his own, scanning his face and leaning close.  “Are you alright, Jon?”

Was he alright?  Hard to say.  He didn’t feel anything, in this moment, other than slight relief.  The truth, the answer to that question he’d longed to hear, was too large to think on.  He knew, that was true, now he knew but it was something he was holding out, examining, testing in his mind. 

He was not alright.  “No.” He whispered it only loud enough for her to hear, a half-smile the only thing he could muster.

“Will that be all, my Lords?  The King and I must speak privately.”  She pressed her hands against his more tightly, ready to pull him with her, rescuing him once more, but Tyrion’s voice brought her to a halt.

“Wait.”  Tyrion approached the pair, Davos rounding to meet Jon’s eyes for a moment and giving him a sad, small smile.  “I would have let you spend your whole life believing Ned Stark was your father, Jon Snow.  Any boy in the realm would have been lucky to have been raised by such a man.”  Tyrion sighed, eyes darting to the clouds above, a distant screech drifting towards them.  “But this war will be won with Fire and Blood, as the Queen so wisely said.  And the Queen has two dragons.”

A thought struck him like a thunderclap, then, something that resonated through him; the realization of why the truth of his parentage was being revealed to him now, as they sailed to fight in this war to live, to survive: Those were his words, too.  He remembered his brothers and sisters, when they were children, learning their Tully words alongside those of the Starks.  He had never let it show, that ribbon of jealousy that had wound it’s way around his heart as a boy, that he would only ever have those cold, ominous words of House Stark.  And even then, as a lad, he’d known those weren’t really his words, not as a bastard.

But he understood, now.  He understood what Tyrion meant, why they had to tell him, why the truth of his blood was more important than the illusion of truth he’d grown up believing. 

There were only two dragons now, and they were the most powerful weapons their armies could hope to wield.  And if Dany’s green dragon would allow it, he would be Jon’s to ride.  With a rider, Rhaegal would be a deadlier weapon, just as Drogon was.  That was what Varys and Tyrion intended.  It was something he never would have attempted, an undertaking far too dangerous for those without Targaryen blood.  And despite the sick, dull ache in his heart in the face of the lies that his life until now had been constructed from, there was something else there, stirring inside him, an ember that was building heat, flaring to life. 

Fire and Blood. 

Those were his words, as well.  The other part of him, that hidden heart that was consumed by a fiery rage when he faced his enemies in battle, when there was nothing but the drumbeat of war pulsing in his veins; that was the Jon who would fight now, who would rain those words down on the enemies of the living until he drew breath no more.

“We will speak more on this later, my Lords.”  At Jon’s words, at the note of finality that he’d edged his voice with, all three men dipping a chin in acknowledgment.  Jon looked to Davos, the man’s face unreadable, and gestured for him to accompany them back below decks.

The constant, the anchor that was holding him firm and solid to himself for now, was the warmth of her hand in his, and he wanted nothing more than to comfort himself in her, to think on none of the complications that this truth created.  And he knew that, for now, he could not.  He needed to speak with Davos, needed to deal with at least some of the weight of *this* that pulled at him just as she did.

And so when they arrived at the door to the cabin he shared with her, Jon quietly asked Davos to wait for him a moment, his Hand trailing down the narrow corridor a bit as he turned back to Daenerys.  She worried her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes a bit unsure now as she realized he was not staying.  She did not speak, looking into him so deeply he thought she could see everything, that she could see right through him, in that moment.

Then she gave him a small smile.  “Go on, then, Jon Snow.  Go get your brooding done and dealt with.  Then you will return to me.”  There was not a question in her voice, but there was in her eyes, the fear that perhaps this would drive him from her, that she had lost him now.  This hallway was not the time nor the place to explain to her another very simple truth: there was nothing he wanted in this world more than her.  He had spent most of his life denying himself the things he truly wanted, but the Gods could damn him themselves if they thought he would deny himself any longer. 

So he kissed her, gently, framing her face gently with his hands as he pulled away.  “Always, Dany.”

\-----------

By the time Jon and Davos made their way to the galley for their evening meal, he thought he’d exhausted whatever melancholy may have still lingered from the morning.  It did not escape him that Davos had become something of a father to him over the course of their time together, the sort of kind paternalism that Ned Stark had only been able to show him in fits and starts, when Catelyn Stark did not linger like a ghost in every corner, always watching.

And Davos had been stern with him as well, having none of Jon’s initial protestations that he could not possibly hope to know who he was now, everything he thought he’d known vanished, burned to ash before him.  It was a fool’s folly, a child’s tantrum to speak of such, Davos had proclaimed.  Jon was still the same man he had been, had learned the same lessons that life had taught him, had suffered the same failures and won the same victories.  That the father of his blood was not the man who had raised him did not matter, not really, because Ned Stark had loved him as his son, and it was love that made a man a father, according to his Hand.

It was a name, Davos had argued, and nothing more.  A fact that made his history changed, but not his heart, not the core of the man he was.  Jon Snow was still Jon Snow, Davos had told him, he was just a bit more now, and that was all there was to it.

And of the lie, that one great lie that had cost Ned Stark his reputation, that one stain that he’d borne willingly, well, was there not honor to be found in that?  He had lied, yes, but only to protect his sister’s newborn son from certain death if his true parentage were ever known.

If he had not lied, Davos had argued, they would never be where they were, right then and there, the only hope against what awaited them in the North.  He and Daenerys, Davos had said, together, that was how this war would be won, and impossibly fate had brought them to each other.  Davos did not believe in any Gods, but Jon could not shake the notion that somehow this was all meant to happen, that his Hand was right.

Jon would not lie, now, most especially not to himself.  He was hers, and she was his, and that was another truth that he would not deny.  She would be his wife, and his Queen until the end of his days, and whether that meant three months or three decades mattered not.

He’d looked for her throughout the day, his search fruitless in between meetings with Davos and Gendry and even briefly with Tyrion.  It had made him uneasy, wondering if it was she who would pull away from him instead, and so when he did not see her there in the galley there was a twist of dread inside.  He would not force this on her, if she chose otherwise, but he would be miserable until he faced his death on the battlefield.

Jon ate slowly, prolonging the time when he would have to finally find her and deal with whatever she had decided in his absence, most of the gathered men in the dining quarters already finishing their meals when the door opened once more.

She was there, finally, and for a moment he just looked upon her face, the beauty he marveled at every morning he opened his eyes to find her next to him.

Then he realized what she was wearing, and a wave of desire swept through him hot and fierce, followed swiftly by the burning need to take the head of every other man in the room who was seeing her like this, eyes bulging slightly as they watched the Queen, *his* Queen, enter the galley fully, regal and beautiful and wearing a proper gown for the first time since he’d met her in her throne room.  She was just as proud, now, chin up as she made her way to where he sat.

But this was not a proper gown of the likes Jon had seen growing up.  This gown was possibly one of the most improper things he’d ever seen, black silk hugging tight to every curve his hands had claimed as his, streaks of dark crimson shot throughout, neckline cut exceedingly low and baring the upper curves of her breasts, only thin straps of silk across her shoulders to hold up the bodice. 

Everyone rose as she walked to stand beside him, and her stoic demeanor finally cracked as she gave him a polite nod of the head as his eyes met hers.  “May I join you, Your Grace?”

He would have been further dismayed by her formality had she not given him a tiny smile, amusement in her eyes as she saw his eyes dip more than once to the wholly indecent amount of cleavage bared by her dress.  It took Jon a beat or two to realize what she had asked, and she merely raised an eyebrow as he cleared his throat and answered.  “Of course, Your Grace.”

Davos spoke up from Jon’s side once the Queen and Missandei, who’d followed closely behind her, had been settled and brought their meal.

“If I may, Your Grace, you look quite lovely this evening.”  Jon saw Daenerys give the man a grin, pleased at the compliment, and he realized that this was probably something he should have said, but it was hard to find the right words when he looked at her, because it only made him think on what she looked like without anything covering her, face flushed and awash with pleasure, body damp with sweat as they took each other again and again, what those lips looked like when she…

Her reply to his Hand shook him from his thoughts, which were also terribly improper in a room that was full of people as they took their meal.  “Thank you, Ser Davos.  What a kind compliment.”  Dany turned her eyes to Jon now, a bit expectantly, and Davos cleared his throat.

“You look very nice, Your Grace.”  It was the best he could put together, really, because words escaped him more often than not when it came to her.  He wanted to order everyone from the damned room, wanted to tell her she was extremely close to him tearing that improper gown from her and taking her right there on the table they dined on.  In the absence of that, he was left with stupid, simple words.

Daenerys just gave a small laugh, shaking her head as she began to eat.  Jon just watched, head barely turned so he could at least be a bit surreptitious in his gaze, wondering for not the first time how it was she had bewitched him so. His eyes drawn to the sweet curve of her cheek, the lushness of her lips as she took a sip of wine, and he was almost spellbound as her tongue slipped out to swipe along her bottom lip.

Then he felt the hand on his knee.

Jon waited, because experience had taught him she either mean to squeeze lightly and withdraw her hand, or she was about to be wicked in a way that had his heart hammering in his chest, her hand small and hot through the breeches he wore.

She didn’t move her hand at all.  It remained, teasing and taunting, and he finally cast his eyes to hers to find her glancing at him frequently as she spoke to Missandei in hushed tones. Daenerys was waiting, watching.  She wanted to see what he would do, he realized.  She was still unsure of what he wanted, he could see it, the crease between her brows here and there, the stiffness of her shoulders. 

Jon took a drink of his ale and turned his head to Davos, issuing a rough, low command.  “Get this room cleared out, if you will, Ser Davos.” 

One look at the set of Jon’s jaw and Davos was on his feet, calling out to the men still loitering along benches and tables, “Alright, you lot!  The King and Queen will dine privately tonight.  Clear out!”

Jon remained seated, Daenerys beside him still, hand lingering at his knee but fingers beginning to brush against him as everyone filed out of the room, save the two of them.  At last the door was pulled firmly shut, and he moved to face her, feeling the hot slide of her hand up his thigh.

“A bold decision, Jon Snow.  I am intrigued as to what you intend.”  The smoky rasp in her voice told Jon she knew exactly what he intended, the triumph in it making it clear that she’d intended the same from the moment she’d chosen to wear that wonderfully scandalous gown.

Jon desperately wanted the words other men had on hand for such moments, words that could seduce or entreat or enchant, but that wasn’t him.  Ser Davos had been right in his remark, all those nights ago when he’d tried to convince Jon that nothing made more sense than knocking on the Queen’s door; Jon was not a poet, he never would be.  He was a man of action.

So he did not answer, not right away, just rose slowly from the bench and made his way to the end of the table, plates and utensils and cups still strewn about the tabletop.  Her lovely violet eyes never strayed from his, burning and hungry and no longer keeping up any pretense otherwise as she watched him sweep an arm across the table, items clattering loudly to the decking below their feet as a wicked smile stretched across her face.

“I suspect you know what it is I intend, don’t you?”  Jon pulled at the straps of his heavy cloak, unfastening it quickly and tossing it onto the table.  Daenerys rose from her seat then, her fingers trailing along the wood grain and then his heavy furs as she came to his side.

“I certainly hope so.  Why do you think I wore this dress?”  There was a purr in her voice as she spoke, something thoroughly feminine, and she might as well have gripped him by the cock then and there for how much harder the intent of it made him. 

The Queen’s nimble fingers began unfastening straps, loosening the leather surcoat he wore and freeing him from it, sighing happily at the sight of only a tunic and breeches remaining of his clothing.  “I suspected you wore that dress to see how long it would take me to order everyone from the room and take you right here on this table.  And so I thought to do what my Queen wished, of course.” 

“You truly have the most marvelous ideas, Jon Snow.  This may be your most delightful yet.”  She worked herself between his body and the end of the table, pressing tight against him now, the heat of her bleeding through the thin linen of his shirt, the full curves of her breasts pushing against his chest.  His breath caught as she rubbed against him, eyes hooded and dark with want. 

Jon’s eyes dropped to her lips, already parted, soft and pink and calling to his as though he were a moth circling her flame.  He was helpless to resist the pull of it, tongue delving between her lips, surprised when she kissed him with a ferocity that sparked something in him, a rush of want and violent desire that made him bite at her lips just as she did his, lips and tongues enflaming then soothing until they both gasped for air, ragged pants

He grasped her waist in both hands, lifting her easily to perch on the edge of the table, the silk of her skirts spreading across his furs as he licked a slow wet trail down the smooth skin of her neck the cleavage that had beckoned him the moment she’d set foot in the galley.  “I’m going to have to kill everyone who saw you in this.”  She gave a laugh and thumped his shoulder, and he managed to rasp out a chuckle around the skin of her upper chest as he placed wet, open-mouthed kisses along the infuriating neckline that barred him from the hard points of her nipples, now straining against the silk.  She arched into him with a breathy moan, her head falling back and sending cascades of curling silver hair to sweep against his hands.  “Tell me how to get this damn thing off, Dany.”

“Laces…it laces up the back.”  She was panting now, nearly whimpering as he brought one hand around to trace down the thin strap along her shoulder, the other snaking behind her to play along her spine, finding the top of the lacing and pulling at the bow that kept her hidden from his sight under the black, slick material.  Jon was relieved when he finally felt the knot give, ready to rip the straps before he was willing to take his mouth away from the sweet taste of her on his tongue.  He was doubly as relieved to feel the bodice give way as his fingers loosened the lacing down her back, material slipping down as her hands raced to pull the fabric away from her chest and down to her waist, breasts round and full, rosy nipples tightening further at the slight chill of the air.

He let out a long exhale, hands cupping and lifting the satiny skin now exposed to his starving eyes, mouth descending to wrap his lips around the stiff peak to his right as she groaned his name and grasped his neck to hold him to her.  Jon felt her slide further forward, wrapping tight, strong thighs still draped in silk around his hips and bringing him flush against her, her own hips beginning a sinuous dance that had him moaning against her flesh as she ground herself against him.

Jon forced his lips away from the siren call of her smooth skin, stripping his tunic over his head and reaching down to free his aching cock from the tight prison his breeches had become, the cool air of the room a relief as he watched her gather and flip the skirts of her gown up.  All sense of relief was redoubled, then gone altogether, as he saw how wet and slick she was, enough lamplight filling the room that he could see every pink glistening fold of her center, silver curls damp with desire, her thighs parting and beckoning him forward to slide his hard, hot length against her.

It was torturous, the wet heat of her against him, but it was impossible to resist when she called his name, voice high and breaking as he felt her clit slide against the head of his cock, and he reached down to wrap his hand around himself and tease that sensitive bud. Her ass was still perched precariously on the edge of the table, arms now locked around his neck as she could do no more than hang on to him and cry out as he pressed against her harder now, fighting the urge to bury himself fully inside her as she brought her lips to his in a hungry, sloppy kiss.  Dany’s tongue tangled with his, teasing him into her mouth then suckling his tongue with small bobs of her head that made him feel a bit faint, honestly, because all the blood in his body was rushing straight to his cock now.

It was Daenerys who broke the kiss, looking up at him adoringly, her chest heaving, beautiful face flushed with want for him.  She leaned back on her elbows, bracing herself so that she could see him before her, her eyes focusing on his as she settled and her ankles pressing into his lower back.  “I need to have you inside me, Jon.  I have ached for you all day.”  She bit her lip playfully at his groan, smiling as he guided himself to her entrance,  

But she was playful no more when he thrust into her with one hard stroke that flooded him with such a welcoming, burning desire for her that he could only pant raggedly as her head fell back, her hands gripping the fabric of his furs as he leaned forward to brace his hands on either side of her on the tabletop.  His hips slapped against hers as he began fucking her with quick, hard strokes that would have her clenching around his cock soon with as close as she seemed, and she finally abandoned her pose, laying fully back now and pulling his head down to her chest as he held himself above her.

Jon leaned down to capture a pink, stiff nipple once more, suckling hard then gently tugging with his teeth, glorying in the feel of her back arching up off the table into him, the sweet molten grip of her around his cock as he drove into her again and again, his own moans lost in the sweat dampened skin of his chest as he moved his attentions to her other breast, his mouth and tongue flicking and suckling alternately as she held his neck tightly against her.

She released him suddenly, her hands sliding to his back, the heat of her palms becoming the hard edge of nails as she scored them down his skin, her cries now harsh and ragged, and he found himself gasping her name as sharp painful pleasure seared through him.

Jon was past thinking at this point, mindless as he thrust into her in deep, rough strokes that made him curse through clenched teeth every time he buried himself to the hilt within her, need and pleasure spiraling through him, building and growing and taking him closer to the edge of release with each plunge into her tight, wet heat.  He looked down at her, hair spread along his furs, body heaving and writhing for him, just for him, because of him.  Gods, he needed to feel her come for him, watch it on her face as she broke, hear his name once more from her lips.

It took only a few flicks of his thumb against her clit to see it happen, to watch her back arch up sharply, her mouth opening in a loud wail of his name that sent another jolt of want through him, pushing him close to spilling as her hips stilled then flexed against him, feeling her spasm and grip his cock so tightly he could feel his toes curl against themselves in the boots he still wore, wrenching release from him on the heels of hers as she thrust her hips against his wantonly now, groaning openly as she felt the warm heat of his seed spilling into her.  Jon felt boneless, leaning on his elbows now and hovering over her as he panted against the skin between her breasts, his tongue tasting the salt of sweat and the sweetness of her as he caught his breath.

He did not look up until he felt gentle hands on the back of his neck, pull his head to hers.

“I love you, Jon Snow.”  He closed his eyes at her words, feeling her press her lips to his eyelids.

“Am I still Jon Snow?”  His question hung in the air for a moment, and she pulled him closer, pressing a kiss to his lips.

“You are always Jon Snow.  My Jon Snow.”  He smiled now, against her lips.

“Aye, Jon Snow it is then.”  Daenerys grinned at his words, lacing her fingers together behind his neck.  “I love you, Dany, more than I have ever loved anything.”  He saw her eyes soften, saw what he felt mirrored there in the amethyst eyes before him, and he chuckled.  “No matter how many names you give yourself.”


	19. Mormont

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorah relays some memories, Jon searches for dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess it's about time to dust Jorah off from his brief mention chapters ago. But the North remembers, as we all know. Made up some remembrances for Jorah as a boy, but the Mormonts were definitely at the tourney according to my 5 minute internet research. We're just having a good time on the SS Jonerys, my fellow boatsexers :) Enjoy!

_**Jorah** _

It had been very easy to hate Jon Snow when he’d met him on the cliffs of Dragonstone, standing so closely to the Queen Jorah had thought he’d never see again.  Ned Stark’s bastard.  Oh, Jorah had scoffed in his mind at that one, the one thing the noble Ned Stark had done wrong; That thing he’d always reminded himself of in those days after he’d been exiled, Ned Stark who’d been a friend once, whom he’d known as a child, a Mormont of Bear Island, he wasn’t so noble either, was he?

It became more difficult to hate Jon Snow the longer you knew him, that was the problem.  He wasn’t really sure what he’d expected of the Bastard of Winterfell who’d suddenly become King in the North, but sailing with the man to Eastwatch had given him plenty of time to watch this Jon Snow who seemed to have gained the affection and interest of the Queen, whether the King knew it or not.

And by the time Jon Snow had offered him Longclaw, the sword of House Mormont, his father’s sword?  By the time Jon Snow had sacrificed himself to the army of the dead to ensure the safe departure of the Queen and the men who’d already climbed atop Drogon’s back?  Hate was hard to come by then, in those cold hours after they’d made it back to Eastwatch.  It had been sorrow Jorah felt then, for the men who thought they’d lost their King, for the realm who’d surely lost the man who had faced this threat before…and most especially for Daenerys, the Queen he loved who would never love him like she loved the King in the North.  Not that she would have admitted it, then, not even to him.  Jorah doubted she’d done much in the way of admitting to herself then, her eyes trained on the ice and snow desperate for a sign of life.  But Jorah could tell, he’d known her for so very long after all. 

Jorah knew she *had* admitted it to herself when she’d agreed to sail with the young King, as it was hard to imagine anyone around the Aegon’s painted table hadn’t known what lie beneath the words the two exchanged.  And Jorah had allowed himself some jealousy, frustration…but not hate.  He’d had to admit one very hard truth to himself: if ever there was a man in all the Seven Kingdoms who would love Daenerys, and care for her, and defend her, and never betray her, it was the King in the North Jon Snow.

Now Jorah sat drinking ale with them both, the pair he’d done his best to avoid since they’d set sail, since the two had decided they would wed.  He had joined them, upon much reflection, after hearing the news the King and Queen had learned the day prior; Jorah was a son of the North as well, and Jeor Mormont and Rickard Stark had been friends for many years.  He’d visited Winterfell on several occasions throughout his life, as a boy and as a man, even during his doomed tenure as the Lord of Bear Island.  The Mormonts had paid their respects at Winterfell after the death of the Lady Lyarra Stark, not long after little Benjen was born, and that was when he’d first met Lyanna Stark.

When Jorah looked at Jon Snow now it was impossible to miss, but he supposed that even those Lords of the North who’d known her while she lived had let the memory of her fade with time.  Jon Snow looked just like his mother.  Ned had not had hair so black, or eyes the gray of Jon Snow’s.  That was Lyanna, through and through.  It had kept him up most of the night, in truth, the enormity of what Ned Stark had done to save his sister’s son, to save Rhaegar’s son; the fact that the one thing he’d soothed himself with over the years, Ned’s one sin, was no sin at all, just another brave act by a good man.

“I have something for you, Ser Jorah.”  The King’s rough northern voice cut through the slight din of the galley as most of the crew and the King and Queen’s advisors ate noisily.  Jorah looked up from his thoughts to see a scroll, Direwolf wax seal holding it closed, and took it from Jon Snow’s fingers as he held it across the table.

“What is it?”  Jorah looked between the pair, so opposite in appearance, but with the blood of old Valyria coursing through their veins. 

“A pardon for your crimes.  I will give the North no reason to harm one of the Queen’s closest advisors when we must unite to fight this war.”  Jon Snow’s face stayed reserved as he spoke, but Daenerys gave him a wide smile as he rolled the scroll between his fingers.

Jorah was a bit overcome, for a moment, not expecting anything of the sort to appear so suddenly after years spent chasing such a boon from Robert Baratheon.  He could almost grow to hate how hard it was to hate Jon Snow.  “I thank you, Your Grace.  This is a kindness I did not expect, but I suppose I should have come to anticipate such by now.”

Jon Snow just dipped his head in response, the Queen reaching up to join her hand with his on the table, fingers intertwining with the Northman’s.

Jorah sighed and took a sip of his ale.  “You look just like her, you know.  I don’t reckon you’ve spoken to anyone who knew her as I did, growing up; not many of us left outside the North I’d say.”

An interest sparked in the King’s eye, face not reflecting such, but he could see the curiosity in him, and couldn’t blame him, really.  “My mother, you mean?”  The young man couldn’t hide the hunger in his voice, and Daenerys did not try to at all, instantly questioning Jorah’s knowledge of this ghost of King’s past.  Jorah nodded in response, taking another sip from his cup as the Queen spoke.

“Did you know her well, Ser Jorah?  What she was like?” 

Jorah chuckled, casting back to the days of his boyhood when he’d been but the future heir to Bear Island, Brandon Stark the future heir to Winterfell, and visits spending riding and ranging and hunting while their fathers discussed matters of the North.  “A wild beauty, she was.  Even as a girl, she was a pretty thing but just as fierce and hotheaded as Brandon; Lord Rickard said they had the wolf blood.”  The Queen smiled widely at this, and even Jon Snow’s normally brooding face had a ghost of a smile.  “I once saw her chase down three squires from horseback, at Harrenhal, and beat them with a tourney sword for harassing Howland Reed.”

The Queen laughed openly at this.  “It appears women in the North are just as fearsome as the men.”

Jorah nodded.  “She was.  Kept a blade on her all the time, from what I recall.  A fine rider, as well.  Wasn’t a horseman in the North who could hope to catch her if she could get to a mount.  She had a way with them, that’s for certain.”  He looked to the King, who just smiled slightly as Jorah spoke, just listening with interest now.  It struck Jorah that Ned rarely spoke of Lyanna after her death, and he realized Jon Snow probably knew little of the woman who’d given birth to him.

“Not a woman who would have been prone to abductions, that much I know for certain.  The Lyanna I knew as a boy would’ve sliced a man from neck to navel before she’d let herself be taken, no matter who he was.”  Jorah nodded at Jon’s questioning look.  “There weren’t many who believed that story at first, not those who knew her.  No, I don’t even think Lord Rickard believed the tale when it first reached he and Brandon, else they’d both have ridden to the Red Keep.  But Brandon’s temper always got the better of him, especially if he’d been in his cups.” 

Now Jon spoke, studying Jorah as he considered the man’s words.  “Then why did no one say such at the time?  Why let the Seven Kingdoms continue to believe such a lie?”

Jorah took drink, his cup now empty and rattling a bit as he placed it back on the table.  “It is always the victor who writes the history, Your Grace, and once Robert Baratheon had his victory it was unwise to speak against him unless you wished for impending death.”  He shook his head, pressing his lips together grimly.  “Those were dangerous times, back then, peace a very tenuous thing to keep in the aftermath of the Rebellion.  There were many who heard about what had happened when the Red Keep was sacked, what Robert had approved of, the deaths of those poor children at the hands of The Mountain.”  Jorah raised sad eyes to the King now.  “Your half-brother and half-sister.  Ned was furious; it was the reason he left Robert to search for Lyanna in the first place, from every tale I heard.”

Jorah could see the distress on the Queen’s face; she knew the fate that had befallen her brother’s children, the horror visited upon them and their mother so long ago.  The King seemed to have a vague sense, but he would leave that for Daenerys to explain later if he was uninformed of the tragedy that had taken their lives; between the pair before him he suspected they’d had enough tragedy of their own to heap more on top in such a public area of the ship.

“She’d be proud of you, Jon Snow.  You’re a good man, despite everything you have experienced.  You have a good heart, just as the Queen does.”  Jorah looked upon the young man’s face once more, that pale skin and dark hair, the long Northern face that had masked his true parentage for so long, that had kept him alive in many ways.  “But I must say you seem to have inherited your father’s penchant for brooding, by all accounts.  Barristan always said Rhaegar was a melancholy fellow, but the people loved him.”

“Ser Barristan Selmy?”  Jorah could hear the recognition in the King’s voice; Selmy’s legend was widespread, and he thought the old knight would have been pleased to know that just the utterance of his name could still elicit something of a whispered awe.

“He sought me across the Narrow Sea after the Lannisters stripped him of knighthood.”  Daenerys spoke now, eyes locked with the King, and Jorah supposed he had probably disappeared from their sight completely as they gazed upon each other.  “He spoke very highly of Rhaegar, told me stories of him that showed me how much Viserys had lied to me throughout our childhood.”

“It’s a shame the old knight died; I suspect he would have liked to have met you, King in the North.”  Jorah smiled at the pair, who’d each glanced at him briefly as he’d spoken only to return their focus to each other almost immediately.  It was time to take his leave, he thought.

He might not hate Jon Snow, he might even respect him, might accept that Daenerys could find no better man for a husband, but he did not need to force himself to endure their loving glances and touches.  He had plenty of things to torture himself with as it was.  Jorah placed the scroll containing his pardon in his doublet and rose.

“If there is any question you feel I may answer for you, Your Grace, you need only ask.” 

Jon Snow turned to him, finally giving the man his full attention, and there was genuine gratitude in those eyes.  Lyanna’s eyes.  “Thank you, Ser Jorah.” 

Jorah nodded to them, taking his leave as he saw the Queen lean over to place a gentle kiss on the King’s cheek.  He would accept her choice.

But he wasn’t sure he was ready to like it, not yet.

\---------------

_**Daenerys** _

“I want it known that this is possibly a terrible idea, Dany.”  Jon was dragging his heels as she pulled him behind her up the stairs that led above deck, his tone only partially teasing as she gave mocking grunts at the effort to tug him with her.

She raised her eyebrows at him as they strode across the wooden planks.  “Where is my recklessly fearless King, Jon Snow?”

“Currently being intimidated by the Mother of Dragons, it would seem.”  He heaved a put-upon sigh and gave in, taking a seat on the deck and leaning against the wooden wall of main cabin where it extended above the main body of the ship, welcoming her between his bent legs as she crawled between his thighs to sit, her back to his chest.

Daenerys smiled as he brought the edges of his furs around them both, a circle of warmth that shielded them both from the cold night air.  “Close your eyes and breathe, and picture them in your mind first.  I’m not sure how to describe it, really…but for me it’s as though I can feel them if I think on them hard enough.  Is that what it’s like with Ghost?”

She could feel his head shake behind her before he answered.  “Not quite.  Warging’s different, Dany, that’s what I’ve been trying to explain.  I don’t just feel him…when I warg him it’s as though I’m a part of him.  Our minds are together.  I don’t know that a dragon would appreciate an unwanted visitor; it seems rather rude to start with, especially if it angers him.”

“Do not try to warg him, then.  Just close your eyes and breathe, and think about them.  What they look like, what they sound like, and just…”  She gave a frustrated sigh; putting into words how she sensed her dragons was hard enough, but she’d never sensed Rhaegal the way she did Drogon, she was not bonded to him as she was her largest child.  But Jon could be, and it thrilled her.

She and Jon had not discussed the depth of the truth they’d learned yesterday, but it was not something she wished to rush.  He was not done brooding, she’d seen him at it the prior night and a few times throughout the day, and she would wait for him to broach the topic once more when he was ready.

But for Daenerys it was relatively uncomplicated.  She was not the last of her House; and she had Rhaegar and Lyanna to thank for that, for the man who had found his way to her impossibly and had made her fall in love with him so completely.  She had Ned Stark to thank for that as well.  And she would not push or press him on this until he wanted it.  Had he been a different sort of man she might have worried about his possible claim to the Throne himself.

But Jon Snow did not seek the Throne for himself.  He would help her claim it, he would marry her and rule with her as her King, but here was a man come to her who had no desire for power, and it made him all the better suited to wield it with her.  They would rule together, and she would love him and care for him in such fashion that he would forget all the love and care he had been denied in his youth; in this she was firm in her determination.

Dany tipped her head back into the hollow where his neck met his shoulder, closing her eyes now after peeking back to see that his were closed.  She reached out with her mind, with her heart, searching for that invisible tether that tied her dragons to her, that link that fired her blood and she hoped would burn true for Jon as well.  If Rhaegal would accept him she would not worry so about his safety in this war.

She felt Jon grasp her hand, reaching to point their joined fingers up and to their left, eyes still closed, searching with his mind now.  “There.  There’s something there.”

And she could feel it, he was right, and excitement surged through her.  “Yes.  They fly high tonight, don’t they?”  Drogon and Rhaegal were a fair distance away, but together, and she felt the pulse of Drogon and a fainter feel of Rhaegal beside him.  “What do you feel?”

Jon exhaled, lowering their hands but keeping his fingers laced with hers.  “Heat.  Like two burning stars when I close my eyes, when I search with my mind as I do for Ghost.”

“Can you feel him from here, your wolf?”  Jon was silent for a moment at her question.

“It’s faint, but yes.  He hunts.  I’ll feel him more clearly once we reach White Harbor, if he’s not already waiting there.  I’d asked him to stay close to Winterfell with Littlefinger there, but as he no longer lives Ghost may roam farther than he might’ve.”

Interesting, Daenerys thought, that it sounded as though Jon did not command his wolf, he asked politely.  She shouldn’t have expected less, she thought, a wry smile twisting her lips as she wiggled within the lovely prison of his body against hers, around hers.  “Can you feel the difference between them, Drogon and Rhaegal?”

Jon was silent longer now, perhaps redirecting his search.  “Perhaps.  I’m not sure how to put it.  I can feel them against my mind, like a wall, but…” He let out a frustrated breath.  “One is a solid wall.  The other, perhaps, has a door.”  He lowered his lips to her ear now, the short hairs along his jaw rasping against the tender curve.  “One which I will not be knocking on tonight.”

Daenerys chuckled, leaning her face back to find his lips with hers, only intending a brief kiss but unsurprised when his lips parted for hers and she felt the slow stroke of his tongue as it danced along hers.  “I’m surprised, Jon Snow, considering you’ve proven very bold in recent memory when it comes to knocking on doors.”

“Just yours, Dany.  And it took me hours to work up the courage for that.”  She felt him smile against her lips as he brought his mouth to hers once more.  “There are other dragons I would rather content myself with this evening.”


	20. Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varys and Daenerys, in two very different interactions with Jon Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your old Captain Northern Lights had to play Easter Bunny last night, and so here we are now, together, deprived of our mutual boatsex group encounters for a whole day!
> 
> Happy Easter! Let us celebrate the resurrection of Jon Snow!

 

_**Varys** _

“Why did you keep my secret?”

Varys looked up, genuinely surprised to see the King in the North standing in the doorway.  He thought he’d found a relatively private, quiet space to review the correspondence he’d yet to read from some of his contacts in King’s Landing, only to find that perhaps he was not so hidden after all.

He’d expecting this young King to come to him, eventually; he knew that Jon Snow would have many questions once the initial shock of his lineage was shaken off.  The Spider rose, gesturing to a seat beside him in the small room, barely large enough for the small round table, a handful of chairs, and a trunk crowding the space.

“The answer to that is rather complicated.”  Varys rerolled the scrolls he’d been examining as he and the King sat, placing them in the folds of his robe before continuing.  He examined the somber Northman, this secret Targaryen, those dark eyes serious and scrutinizing him in return.  “The simple answer is that I would not see one more innocent child killed because of their name, their blood.  I do not exaggerate when I tell you that any Targaryen was in peril after Robert’s victory.”

Jon Snow gave him a searching gaze, eyes narrowed slightly as he digested the eunuch’s words.  He watched the King run a hand down his face tiredly.  “And the complicated answer?”

“I doubt there would ever be enough time aboard this ship to completely answer that question.  I’m sure you question my motives, and you are wise to do so.”  Varys nodded, as the King merely sat, waiting.  “The more complicated answer, I fear, is a bit more sentimental than I would like.”  At this, Varys sighed, folding his hands before him on the table and leaning forward, his voice lowering. 

“Aerys was mad by the end, and he paid for his crimes with his life.  Jaime Lannister did the Seven Kingdoms a service ending his life, for all the vows he broke to do it.  But Rhaegar…”  Varys saw Jon Snow’s eyes widen a bit at the utterance of his father’s name.  “…he was the King I was prepared to serve.  He was a man who had suffered his own trials in his life, a humble man, a man who was much loved by the people, a man who would protect them.  And when I learned about you, his last living son, sheltered by the Starks of Winterfell, your mother’s blood; I confess, Jon Snow, perhaps it was for Rhaegar in the beginning, the memory of the man he had been and hope that perhaps this hidden son would grow to be the same that I kept your secret.”

Varys would not burden Jon Snow with the deeper truth in these words; He would not tell this young man who’d suffered so many personal horrors how his father had suffered as well.  He would not tell Jon Snow of the viciousness of his grandfather, the Mad King.  He would not tell him of the stories he’d heard of the private violence of that Targaryen household before he’d arrived in King’s Landing, nor the abuse he witnessed once he had taken his place as Master of Whispers.  Varys would not tell Jon Snow of how Aerys had beaten Rhaegar, how Rhaegar had thrown himself between his father and mother to protect the Queen more times than bore remembering now, how many miscarriages the Queen had still suffered at Aerys’s hand.

No, Varys did not need to tell the King in the North of how deep Rhaegar’s own misery ran, nor of how the Prince had still mustered the courage to face his father time and again, how he’d borne the weight of it all and still done his duty, married for political advantage, produced the heirs his station required of him, though not for love.  Rhaegar had not known much love in his own life, and neither had his son, the raven-haired King before Varys now.

And Varys would not tell Jon Snow of the change that had overtaken that melancholy Prince after Lord Whent’s now infamous tournament, when his own little birds had told him of a secret meeting in a copse of trees, with the young Lady of Winterfell dressed as a knight and the Prince of the realm overwhelmed with such courage and bravery that he kept her secret, fell in love with the heart of her, the soul beneath that wild Northern beauty.  Such talk was for times of peace, when spring was upon them and the Throne was occupied once more by House Targaryen.

A new House Targaryen, borne of suffering and death and heartbreak and betrayal, that was true.  But it was also borne of love, and it was the love between these last two dragons that would make them great, that would make them heroes.

And all those poor souls, crying out for an end to their suffering at the hands of these petty lords and ladies, at the whims of monsters like Lannisters and Boltons…they would line the streets of King’s Landing to crown the saviors of the realm.

If, of course, they managed to survive.

Jon Snow cleared his throat, his stare boring into the Spider’s despite the sheen to his eyes now.  “And then?  I’m sure at some point that memory faded, Lord Varys.  You do not seem the sort to stay sentimental for long.”

“There was no need, after a time.  I began to hear stories of you from my little birds, Ned Stark’s bastard who was a good, quiet lad.  A boy who made no trouble, tried to be invisible really, to escape the ire of Lady Catelyn Stark.  A boy who was kind, but melancholy.  Then a young man who had a good mind and a strong sword hand, who held back when he sparred with his father’s trueborn son, who never tried to stand out no matter the potential he may possess.”  Varys looked at Jon with knowing eyes.  “By the time you left for the Wall, Jon Snow, I was convinced that if the day ever came that the realm was in need of a King, they would find a true one in you.  But while Robert lived, your life was forfeit if he ever learned of you.”  Varys tapped the table before him with his fingers.  “He would have killed you, and the Starks, all of them for the lie Ned Stark told, for the blood that runs in your veins.”

The King looked down at his hands, one fisting and releasing, before his eyes met the Spider’s once more.  “And why not tell me when I arrived at Dragonstone?”

Varys gave a disbelieving smile.  “You wouldn’t have believed me, I think we both know that.”  He leaned back, tucking his hands back into the furred robe he wore.  “And if I am to be honest, I will admit I had my doubts until I learned what happened that day on the cliffs.  When you touched the Queen’s dragon.”

The King’s dark head tipped slightly, considering.  “Understandable.  Although approaching a dragon has not always required…”

“You do not understand what you did, the enormity of it.  Approaching an unbonded dragon is dangerous enough, even to those who bear Valyrian blood.”  Varys’s voice was firm now, a bit harsh that the young man did not even fully know how impossible it was, what he had done.  “But for her bonded dragon, with his rider mounted, wounded in battle…”  He blew out a breath.  “You should never have survived it, Your Grace.  None have ever touched that dragon save for the Queen.”

Varys saw Jon Snow’s deep inhale, that look of sad contemplation, and saw for an instant his father, the King’s face bearing that same distant, brooding stare.  “And you believe I must ride the other.”  The King nodded, his words more statement than question.

“I believe the best way to protect the most powerful weapons the Queen possesses is to have you both in the skies for this battle.  And even I do not truly comprehend what we face, I am sure.”  Varys had heard much talk since the Queen and King had returned from Eastwatch less one dragon; tales of dead beasts come back to life, giants and corpses and frozen men on horseback, legions of them swarming the snows beyond the Wall. 

One more shake of the King’s head and he was moving to stand.  “No, my Lord, I suspect you do not.  But we will all face it soon enough.”  Varys was surprised to see a twist of the King’s lips, almost a real smile.  “So I suppose we must hope the Queen’s other dragon doesn’t burn me alive before then.”

Varys watched him leave, hands pulling out the scrolls he’d hidden in the folds of his robe.  Yes, he mused, they must all have hope now.  Hope, and perhaps a bit of faith in whatever force had collected this wayward host he traveled with now.  Faith was something that Varys did not indulge in, but perhaps now his only option was to do naught but try for some.  Just a bit.

\--------------

_**Daenerys** _

“Jon Snow.”  Daenerys felt her voice catch in her throat, Jon’s rough palms slick with soap and sliding along her chest to cup her breasts, thumbs sliding over her nipples in achingly slow sweeps.  “I’m beginning to believe you did not volunteer to assist me with the purest of intentions.”  She could feel his lips creep slowly down the back of her neck, smiling against her damp skin.  It was hard to keep such a suspicious edge to her voice when his hands were so cunningly slick and deft, a slight pluck of one peaked nipple here or twisting tug there slowly feeding the ache inside her, that familiar longing to feel him touch her everywhere, no matter how many times she’d had him.

His bearded jaw rasped along the skin of her throat now as his lips came up to caress her earlobe, tongue tracing the sensitive shell of it before he captured the lobe between his teeth.  She could not stop her soft moan as her head rolled to the side, his words a faint whisper in her ear.  “What gave it away, Your Grace?”

Daenerys forced her eyes open, head tipping to look up and back at him as he knelt beside the metal tub, his chest bare at her insistence that if he intended to take Missandei’s place and help her have a proper bath he’d need to remove his shirt.  It was a minor aggravation that his breeches still remained, but she would see him shed of those soon enough.  “I’m not sure I can ever recall a time when my breasts have been cleaner.”

Jon smirked down at her, one hand leaving the agonizingly wonderful task at her chest to slide slowly down to her navel.  “I do intend to move on to other areas of interest as well, if that is any consolation.”

“I am greatly relieved.”  She gave a laugh that quickly turned into a throaty groan as his hand teased downward, fingers gently parting her folds to glide along the length of her, a sound almost like a growl escaping his lips as he felt the hot slickness that had already gathered, evident even with the heated water she soaked in.  Her blood sang for him, she’d decided, in those quiet moments when they were abed together, hands tracing sweat-slicked skin, panting and sated.  And Jon Snow had the blood of the dragon as well as she; she had no doubt that his must sing for her as well.

Dany could only gasp as he slid one long finger inside her, feeling herself clench desperately around him, desire chasing itself in an endless spiraling dance to the song Jon created between them now, another finger joining as she panted his name, her hands now grasping the cold metal rim to keep herself upright as he increased the tempo.  The hand still toying with her breasts now switched between the two, pulling and tugging, palming and squeezing as her hips circled helplessly below the water. 

It dawned on her that he was toying with her still as she moaned his name breathlessly, her eyes peering up and back to his as he rose to his knees behind her, pulling her to sit up and against the firmness of his chest, his eyes dark as pitch as he watched her body respond to his, watched her become consumed by the flames of her want for him.  She could see it there, his hunger for her in return, something great and powerful that moved through him just as her desire for him scorched through her, and it made her hips buck against his hand, water lapping up and over the metal rim as she finally surrendered to what he was creating within her.

“You are so beautiful like this, Dany.  So very lovely.”  He leaned down to kiss her tenderly, sweet slides of his tongue that belied the frantic thrusting of his fingers into her core, almost enough, but not quite, as he had yet to slide his thumb against that sensitive bud just above, and it was a sweet agony, because she knew he would, and he knew it as well, and yet he still did not, curving his fingers slightly within her to give her a bit more friction where he knew she would feel it most.  Jon Snow had proven himself to be just as wicked a tease as she was when the mood struck him.

She banged her hand against the tub in frustration as she felt just the ghost of a touch against her clit, her hips rising further to chase the sensation as he resumed the now frenzied drive of his fingers into her.  “Stop torturing me, Jon!”  She gave a helpless choked laugh that became a sobbing cry as he pinched her nipple roughly, pleasure arcing through her and arching her back at the sensation.

“That’s not very nice.”  His voice was low and rough against her ear now, and she pressed her thighs together, trapping his hand for a moment as she rode his fingers herself, trying desperately for the contact she craved.  “I’m merely trying to help, Dany.”

“Please, Jon.”  She turned her face into the skin of his neck, her head cradled there as his hands resumed their torment, rolling stiff pink nipples between his thumb and fingers with one hand while the other found it’s way free to thrust into her at his own pace again, and she mewled against him.  “Hurry.  Please.  I want to taste you.”

His breath escaped in a harsh pant at her words, and he brought his thumb against her finally, slow sweeping circles around her clit that became quick flicking glances as his fingers slid roughly into the tight heat of her sheath.  Daenerys felt her eyes slam shut at the sweet relief of it, the swamping pleasure that washed through her, the sharp, clenching release that came over her in waves that had them both gasping as water sloshed carelessly onto the floor.

She could only press her lips against his neck, tongue slipping out to taste the salt of his skin, slight moans still escaping her as the tremors rolling through her slowed.  She brought one wet hand up to curve around his neck, holding herself against him as she sighed happily.  “I do so enjoy your assistance, my love.”  Dany pulled away slowly, turning to face him and moving her body as far back as she could as she knelt in the tub.  “Now, please remove those ridiculous pants.”

The King in the North snorted a laugh as he rose, those dark eyes sweeping down her body as he removed the offending breeches and stood before her, remarkably less shy than he’d been in those first few days together as he saw her lick her lips at the sight of his cock, thick and hard and bobbing as he stepped into the tub now.  She cupped her hands, scooping water up to release over his skin before soaping her hands.

“I would be remiss if I did not return the favor of such *thorough* attentions.”  His breath escaped in a hiss at the first touch of her slick hands on the hot, smooth skin of his length, and she fought back the urge to take him into her mouth immediately, wanting to tease him a bit as he’d teased her.  “And you appear to be in dire need of my attentions.”  She watched with eyes full of hot anticipation as his head dropped back, both hands fisting around him, one atop the other, sweeping slowly up and down his cock in measured strokes.  She swept soapy fingers along the heavy weight of his balls, relishing the gasp he released, the helpless thrust of his hips driving him more rapidly through the circle of her fingers around him.

“Dany.”  Her name was a pained groan as she released him completely, her hands cupping still more water to rinse the soap free from his skin as he gazed down at her with heavy-lidded eyes.  She made sure his eyes were still on her as she grasped him once more, licking her lips and pressing a hot, open mouthed kiss to the heated, hard flesh now cradled in her hand.  She trailed her mouth along him, licking and suckling lightly until his hands were on her shoulders, one slipping up every now and then to caress her neck as she left a wet trail of saliva that made him almost as slick to her touch as the soap had.

“Are you ready for me, Jon?”  He released a broken cry as she wrapped her lips around the head of his cock, her tongue flicking at the sensitive underside. 

“Fuck, please Dany.”  Oh, how she loved him like this, completely unrestrained, no wall of stoic ice between them, almost undone with want.  “Stop teasin’ me.”  He sounded very Northern when he was like this, accent heavier and thicker, and it made her flood with want for him once more, a heavy ache building in her womb that he would have to satisfy later, as she would not leave this space with him until she’d tasted him on her tongue.

Daenerys pulled her head back, watching him for a beat before smiling wickedly and taking as much of him as she could in one thrust of him into her mouth, her hand just below the seal of her lips, her tongue swirling up and around his head with each stroke.  She could feel herself grow wetter still from the wet, liquid sound of him sliding in and out of her mouth, her head bobbing rapidly as she worked him now, a slight twist of her fist with each swipe of her tongue, and he just cried out brokenly now as his hips picked up the rhythm she’d built, working in tandem now as she brought her other hand around to grip at the firm cheek of his ass, pulling him more fully into her mouth as she relaxed her throat.

And then he was arching into her, hips freezing against her and stuttering as he cried out brokenly, his seed filling her mouth with salty warmth that she swallowed down, drinking him in and swiping along his length to capture all of it, all of him.  As he released his grip on her shoulders, hips finally stilling for good, she released him from her mouth and leaned back to smirk at him, and answering grin flitting across those wonderful lips of his as he brought a hand down to pull her up. 

She stood against him now, leaning against his chest, looking down at the metal tub they now both occupied, water lapping around their knees.

“Take me to bed, Jon Snow.  I am not quite finished with you yet.”


	21. Afterlife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon doesn't like to lie, but some truths are too personal when a person returns from the dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TeenLights delayed the posting of this last night by absconding with the laptop for some so-called 'school project'. He has not grasped that boatsex is the highest priority, and as his mother I could not clearly explain without appearing crazy. So today will be a two-fer, this chapter now, and another tonight, because I love you all so very deeply after all this time together. Enjoy!

_**Jon** _

He watched as slim fingers traced the scar over his heart.  This was something she did often, Jon mused, and he wondered what it was she thought as she did so, her eyes sometimes sad and soft, sometimes full of fire as she touched the proof of his death; his heart beating solidly beneath the ragged line across his pectoral should have been impossible, and he still was not entirely sure how he’d come back. 

Jon prayed to the Old Gods still, not the Lord of Light, as he doubted he would find much faith in a God whose priestesses burned little girls alive. 

“Jon?”  His name was a whisper against his skin as she pressed her lips to that scar now.  He did not answer, just watched until she raised her head, eyes locking as she looked up.  At the realization that she had his attention, she smiled softly.  “I want to ask you something.  But you need not answer if you don’t wish to.”

He could feel his brow furrow as he frowned slightly.  She looked so serious, so somber.  She looked exceedingly sad, now.  “What is it?”

Dany took a deep breath, eyes tracing the line of each scar before she whispered, “Was it terribly painful?  Dying?”  Her eyes on his were fleeting, a flash of violet before she cast her gaze back to his chest once more.

Jon considered how to best answer, laying back more fully against the pillow beneath his head, pulling her down to cradle against him, a hand now smoothing down her back as she tucked her head into the curve of his neck.  “There was some pain, at the beginning, but then I was just numb, Dany.  I could see, and hear, a least for a few moments there in the snow, I knew I was bleeding to death, but then there was just darkness, black as night.”

He heard a sniff, felt a wet tear against his neck.  “I am glad you delivered justice yourself, Jon, or I would demand we make a stop at Castle Black so that I might introduce those who betrayed you to Drogon.”  She gave a watery chuckle at his amused snort, nuzzling her face into him as he brought his hand up to stroke her hair.

Jon lay there in silence with her, content in holding her against him, feeling the beating of her heart against him where her chest pressed against his side, trying to cast out those flashes of remembrance that speaking on his death had brought back.  The cold air on his face and snow beneath his back, the feeling his very life seeping from him there in the night, the utter helplessness.

Daenerys raised her head, her eyes rimmed pink.  “And after?”

Jon drew in a sharp breath; he knew what she was asking, the same thing Melisandre had asked when he’d first returned, confused and terrified and more shaken than he’d ever been, and more than a little angry that whatever peace death might have finally granted him had been taken away. 

So Jon had lied to Melisandre.  What he could recall of that time between his death and return to life was hazy, vague in that way that dreams became once you awoke, the details foggy.

But he remembered. 

He would tell her, he thought.  He should.  They were heading into this war, together, and it was possible they might both fall trying to defeat the Night King. 

Jon would tell her the truth.

It was a truth that hadn’t made sense at the time, not all of it, not the parts that had slowly sharpened into focus as he’d journeyed to Dragonstone, as he’d met her, grown to know her, to love her as he’d never thought he would love anything or anyone.  But he would tell her because he had seen her, there; he would tell her even though a part of him was still convinced it was really nothing more than a dream, something his mind had conjured up to soothe his soul in those days after his return.

“I’ve never told anyone this.”  Jon sat up slowly, watching as she propped her head up on her elbow to look at him, blankets tucked around her to ward off the chill of the night air.

“After the darkness, I opened my eyes.  I was in the Godswood, at Winterfell.”  Jon ran a hand down his face, speaking slowly, quietly, trying to remember every detail now.  “My father,” his voice caught, “Lord Stark…”

A gentle hand on his arm stopped him.  “Your father.”  She gave him a small, soft smile.

Jon swallowed, nodding.  “My father was there.  He always sharpened his sword by the Heart Tree there, and he was doing the same then, running the stone down the blade.”  Jon gave a quick exhale.  “Then he looked up at me.  He was crying.”  Jon shook his head then, that made it sound as if Lord Eddard Stark was weeping like a child.  “Not making a sound, but I could see tears.  And he stood and walked to me and embraced me, for longer than he ever had while he lived.”  He could feel tears filling his own eyes now, and he tried to fight them, to get this out, to unburden himself from what he could remember.

“He just kept whispering, ‘I’m so sorry, Jon.  I’m so sorry.  I failed you.’  I remember telling him he was wrong, that he’d never failed me, but he wouldn’t stop saying those words.  He told me he was supposed to protect me, he had promised, and he had failed.”

Jon felt Daenerys rise to sit beside him now, her arm reaching behind to drape across his back, lips pressing a kiss to his shoulder.  He pressed on, needing to finish the tale.

“Then he released me, and he grabbed my face in his hands, forced me to look at him.  He said, “This is not how you die, Jon.  You are meant for greater things than this.”  Jon wiped a hasty thumb under his eyes, hoping to sweep away any telltale wetness.

He felt her hair slide against his side and back, her head coming to rest on his shoulder now as she slipped a hand up and down his arm.  “He was right, then.  There is greatness inside you, Jon Snow.  I have witnessed it myself.”

Jon shook his head, almost shyly, praise not something he was every truly comfortable accepting, even from her.  Perhaps if they lived long enough, if fate let him have her for his own, and let them survive, he would gladly hear such things.  It was enough, now, that he had to remind himself he wasn’t even a bastard; a conscious thought he had to tell himself when those old doubts would resurface.

“He grabbed my shoulders then, turned me to face away from him, to face the Keep, the home of my childhood.  He said, ‘You are meant to save them, Jon.  You were born to save them.  You cannot stay.’  I thought he meant Winterfell.”  Jon sighed, fingers toying with the edge of the furs on his lap.  “But then suddenly he stood atop the Wall with me, and the Night King and his army stood before us, and I realized he meant I must save *all* of them.  All of Westeros perhaps.”  Jon shrugged.  “More war, more fighting, more death.  More lives to take, more faces to see at night when I close my eyes.”

Her hand squeezed his shoulder, almost in commiseration he thought.  There were things they understood about each other, things in which they agreed completely, and in the matter of what it meant to rule, to protect those who could not protect themselves, he had come to find she had been right, that day on the cliffs.  Sometimes strength was terrible, sometimes to save many lives one must be lost; sometimes justice must be served no matter how painful the cost to the one delivering it.

“My father stood there, gazing down at those countless dead men, and I remember the fear in his eyes when he looked at me.  ‘You must win, Jon, or all is lost.’  And I felt so helpless, then, I remember, I could barely respond.  I asked him how I was supposed to defeat an army so vast with so few men to fight them.”  Now he felt a small shiver of nerves through him, in anticipation of what he must share next.  What Ned Stark had shown him just before he’d woken up on that cold slab, what he had not understood until he’d laid eyes on her atop her throne at Dragonstone.

He reached over and took the hand that had been sliding along his skin, lacing his fingers with hers, finally looking at her again for the first time since he’d started speaking.  “Then we were somewhere else.  I know not the name of such a place, just that it was night and there were stars, so many stars they could never be counted.  And there was sand, everywhere, in every direction, as far as I could see as I turned to take it in.”  Jon slid his thumb along the satiny skin of her hand as he watched interest spark in her eyes.  “My father motioned for me to follow him, not speaking as we walked.  It seemed endless, a sandy wasteland, but he stopped and turned, waiting for me to join him.  In front of him, I saw a girl, perhaps close to my age, but it was hard to tell because I could not see her fully.  It was as though shadows danced across her face.  But I remember that she had the most lovely hair, like silver in the moonlight.”

Daenerys gasped, eyes filling with tears once more, lips pressed together in what he recognized as an attempt to stop herself from interrupting. 

“My father said, ‘Find her, Jon.  She is lost as you are.  Find her.  Save her, that she may fight beside you.  Save her and save yourself.’  I didn’t understand, not really.  I asked what he meant, who you were, where I was supposed to find you.  But then I heard something, something I knew, something that did not belong.  I heard Ghost howl, and so did my father.  But then I saw her head turn, this lost woman in the desert, injured and alone, as if she heard him, too.”  He squeezed her hand, watching those amethyst eyes widen in wonder, her hand rising to stroke along his cheek.

She opened her mouth then, about to speak, but Jon held up a finger, his tale nearly complete now.  “My father embraced me once, tightly, and whispered, ‘You must return, Jon.  It is time to go back.  Seek the Mother of Dragons.  Find your place.’  And then…” 

Here he had to stop, just for a moment, his father’s final words to him, whether just a dream or the reality of what lay beyond death hammering into his heart.  He’d finally understood, in these last few days aboard this boat, the truth of him finally laid bare.  He’d understood what this man who’d raised him as his own, as best he could, had been trying to tell him when he’d left for the Wall so long ago.  “Then he whispered to me, ‘You may not have my name, but you have my blood.’  And that was the last thing I heard before I woke up.  It may have been nothing more than a dream.”

Jon let out a shaky breath, clearing his throat and finally risking a hesitant look at her, to see if she thought him mad.

Dany was staring at him with wide eyes, both hands now shaking as she brought them to cup his face.  “Not a dream, Jon.”  Her voice was thready, stilted as if she were struggling to breath.  “I cannot speak to the rest…”  She stroked her thumb across his lip, smiling despite her wet, sad eyes.  “But I heard your wolf howl there, lost in the Dothraki Sea where Drogon left me.  It was the saddest sound I thought I’d ever heard, it made me want to cry.”

Jon let out the breath he’d been holding, drawing her to his chest now as she cried quietly, for him or for her own remembrances he wasn’t sure.  Perhaps both, he thought, as he pressed kisses into her hair.

He would not press.

There had been one other thing, one thing very secret and precious to him, one thing he had seen that he would not speak of yet.  One thing she was so sure she could never have, one thing he would not question her on again.  One thing that time would reveal, if the final part of his remembrance had been as real as seeing her in the desert, hearing Ghost let out that low, sad howl in the night.

His father had turned, when he’d released him, his face hidden until he had shifted his body once more to look at Jon, something in his arms.  A babe.  A small, sleeping babe with silver hair, and his father had handed him the child, helping Jon cradle the small life in his arms.  He remembered how confused he had felt, how unsure and unsteady he was with this act, how warmth had flooded him as he’d looked down at that peaceful face in the moonlight.  Then the babe had opened his eyes, a boy, Jon was sure of it, and he had eyes that were as flinty gray as Jon’s own, and how his chest had ached at the sight.

His father had whispered one more thing to him, then, something he would tell her if he lived to see it come to fruition, if his eyes ever beheld her grown swollen with his child in her womb.

‘You must return, Jon.  From your blood shall many Kings and Queens be born.’


	22. Stag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry learns he has another living relative. Much drinks, so bonding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two-fer that was promised. May the Lord of Light keep you looking young and doable well into your 100's. Each and every delightful one of you!

Gendry Waters had, on occasion, experienced several unlikely things in his short life.  He’d seen a little girl, pretending to be a boy, who was really a Lady of a Great House, who’d ended up really being a warrior.

He’d been bought by a beautiful woman, who’d told him the truth about his father, who’d then been amazingly naked and seducing him, who’d then ended up putting leeches on his cock like some sort of nightmare.

He’d hidden in plain sight after rowing for what felt like years in King’s Landing, only to be found once more by the man who’d set him free, who’d ended up Hand to the King in the North and brother of the little warrior girl he’d once known.  A King who was also a Bastard.  Unlikely, he’d thought, but amazing.

He’d joined this same man in the most terrifying experience of his life, this man who’d fought the dead before, who’d seen the danger and gone to the Mother of Dragons for help, who’d made him abandon their group beyond the Wall to run all the way back for help from that selfsame Queen, who’d actually fucking *died* according to the men at that very Wall and come back to life.

He’d actually begun to befriend that Queen, who’d been one of the most intimidating people he’d ever met, who’d brought dragons back to life once more, who’d come to save the King and their men in a hail of fire from what he’d heard, who’d freed slaves and endured horrors across the Narrow Sea.

Yes, Gendry thought, he’d seen and been through some very strange things.  But if anyone had every told him, years ago, that one day he’d be sailing to the North with a King and Queen just a few years older than him, in a host of Dothraki warriors and Unsullied forces, with fucking dragons flying above them; if he’d been told that one day he’d be getting absolutely piss drunk with them on the Queen’s flagship, he’d have thought the person mad.  Raving mad.  An absolute lunatic.

But here he was, drinking down Northern ale that he’d found he preferred to all the wines aboard, sitting around a table with Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow, with the Dwarf of Casterly Rock regaling them with a complicated joke involving a brothel, a jackass, and a honeycomb that seemed to have lasted for hours.

“My Lord.”  Gendry waved a hand at Tyrion, who huffed in exasperation.  “Any joke ‘takes this fucking long to tell can’t be that good.” 

Tyrion’s reply was uttered in such a low, measured drawl that Gendry could only assume he was twice as far into his cups as the rest of them were.  “And I suppose you know a better one?”

“None that’s fit for a Queen’s ears.  Or a King’s.  Or a Lannister’s, for that matter.”  Gendry laughed into his battered copper cup as the Queen’s Hand snorted out a chuckle of his own.  His eyes darted over to the King and Queen, and while he could not tell if either were as deep in the drink as he and Tyrion, at some point Daenerys had foregone regality and properness, having apparently decided that sitting atop the King in the North was preferable to sitting beside him. 

Gendry shook his head.  He wondered what Arya would say at the idea that her quiet, somber brother Jon had spent the bulk of their journey attempting to fuck the entirety of all Seven Hells out of the Dragon Queen.  He was *not* drunk enough to actually think it wise to share such information, as he was relatively sure Arya would at least hit him when she saw him next.  She could hold a fucking grudge, that one.

Tyrion had spied them as well, whispering to each other, a sure bet they would be headed out the door in the next few minutes as if the Night King himself were chasing them.  He seemed to have thought the same, as he addressed them with only a bit of a slur, drawing their eyes away from each other to focus on him.

“Have Your Graces managed to spare the time to look over your marital contract?”  Jon just grimaced slightly but nodded at Tyrion, and Daenerys looked more than a little frustrated as she replied to her Hand.

“We have, Lord Hand.  The King and I are agreeable to the terms you have outlined, save for one thing.”  Gendry watched Tyrion wave his hand a bit impatiently for the Queen to continue, probably to store away whatever the change must be before he got absolutely sloppy.  “Upon our marriage the King will continue to be referred to as such, not King Consort.  You will be sure to strike all such references as you find them.”

Gendry found that curious.  He didn’t really pay much mind to what highborns did as he’d grown up in Flea Bottom, and he wasn’t sure of the difference.  No better way than to ask, he guessed.  “Beg pardon, your Grace but what’s the difference?”

The Queen turned her stare to Gendry, giving him a slight smile as she explained.  “A King is a ruler himself.  A King Consort is the Queen’s Husband, a King in name only.  And Jon will remain a King in his own stead even after we wed.”  She turned those purple eyes of her to Arya’s brother now, her face remarkably softer as she continued, speaking now just to the King.  “Your claim is as strong as mine, Jon, and I will not diminish your right to rule just as you do not wish to diminish mine.  We rule together.  Equals.  Agreed?”

Gendry saw a thoughtful frown appear on Jon Snow’s face, then the raven-haired man nodded, a small quirk of his mouth belying his acceptance with whatever it was that had troubled him.  “Agreed.”

The blacksmith took a large gulp, finishing his ale and rising to pour another from the row of pitchers along a rough wooden table flush to the wall.  He puzzled over what the Queen had said, wondering if the alcohol hadn’t twisted Daenerys’s words, as Tyrion heaved a put-upon sigh, rubbing a hand along his brow as if in pain when Gendry returned to his seat.

“I shall take care of it on the morrow, if you are sure.”  The Queen did not respond other than a brisk nod, her face snapping back to the King as if she thought he’d disappear if she looked away for too long.

No, he thought, what she’d said didn’t make sense, no matter how deep he’d wandered into his cups.  “What do you mean, the King’s claim is as strong as yours?  He’s King in the North, true, but that’s one kingdom out of seven, isn’t it?”  He watched as Daenerys looked to Jon in disbelief, the pair now staring at him as Tyrion started chortling into his own wine.

“You don’t know, do you?”  Tyrion sighed.  “Perhaps Davos is not quite the gifted gossip I thought him to be.”  The Queen’s Hand slid from his chair, cup abandoned but wineskin in hand, as he made for the door of the galley.

He heard the Queen laugh quietly.  “My Lord, where are you going?”

“I’m too drunk to deal with this tale again, Your Grace; I must beg your leave and begin sleeping off what promises to be a grand headache in the morn, which will greatly impair my ability to focus on the reams of paperwork I must now complete.”  The imp waved a hand in the air in farewell as the Queen gave an amused assent, then turned to address Gendry as he left.  “I hope you enjoy impossible tales.”

Gendry’s confusion must have shown on his face as the King took pity on him, attempting to explain what it was that the Queen’s Hand meant.

And of all the unlikely things Gendry’d ever encountered, this was the most impressive.

Jon Snow wasn’t a bastard.  He was a trueborn.  And not just a trueborn, he was the son of Ned Stark’s sister Lyanna.  And his father.  Seven Hells.  His father was Rhaegar Targaryen, oldest son of the Mad King.  His father might’ve been King if not for Gendry’s own father.

What a shit feeling that was, drunken depression washing over him as he realized that instead of their fathers being best friends, his father had killed Jon’s on the Trident.  Because of Jon’s mother.  And Gendry’s father had also, in another stroke of shit luck, begun the lie that Jon’s father had actually kidnapped Jon’s mother and started a fucking war over it.

But Jon Snow brushed off Gendry’s apologies, saying they were none of them in that room responsible for whatever sins their parents had committed.  And the Queen patted his hand, trying to comfort him he reckoned, saying that they could be different, all of them here, they could try to fix what their parents had broken, together.

Then they asked Gendry if he would think on being legitimized, taking the name Baratheon proper, perhaps being the Lord of Storm’s End himself if they survived this bloody war against the dead.  A Lord?  What in the bloody hells did they think he knew about that?  And Gendry could only sit in numb shock, finally telling them to ask him when he wasn’t so damned drunk. 

The King and Queen laughed, and it struck Gendry that he was related to Jon as well as Daenerys.  They were blood family to him.  And it made him choke up, a bit, but he gave a few good resounding coughs to hide it, the King thumping him on the back, quick on his feet and not seeming the least bit tipsy though Gendry knew he’d had his share of drink.

Then a thought hit Gendry so swiftly, so hard in the gut that he began to laugh, almost helplessly, tears streaming down his face as he doubled over now, clutching his stomach, several moments passing before he managed to calm himself enough to see their concerned faces.

“Your sister,” Gendry pointed at Jon Snow, wheezing a bit as he fought through his lingering laughter, “is going to shit herself right proper when you tell her all this.”  He lost his battle with amusement as he guffawed once more, imagining the look on Arya’s face when she found out her brother was a secret Prince, not a bastard at all, marrying the Dragon Queen.  It was all so fucking mad, all of it. 

“Aye, you’re right.  She really fucking will.”  Jon started to chuckle, imaging the same thing, Gendry thought, quickly devolving into wide mouthed laughter that had the Queen staring at him as if she were going to devour him whole. 

Time to leave, then, as he’d heard enough in that one torturous hour in Tyrion’s cabin to know he’d want to get far, far from earshot before they resumed their usual pattern of evening activities.  He rose, tipping his head to them both, calling over his shoulder at Jon as he walked to the door, “You’d better show up on a dragon yourself, and let that do the explaining for you!”

When he heard the Queen mutter that it wasn’t a bad idea Gendry turned, his back to the door as he opened it, and raised his eyebrows at the King.  Jon Snow just shrugged before the Queen brought her mouth to his, effectively ending all conversation. 

“Stay off the table by the window, please, that’s where I eat my meals!”  Gendry heard the Queen laugh merrily, then thankfully heard nothing as he shoved the door into place.

This was madness, really, all of it.  The truth of who they all were to each other, what they were sailing to face, that he would see Arya once more…absolute fucking madness.

It was certainly the least boring period of his short life.  And he was glad he’d made the decision he had that day, when Davos had sought him out, when he’d left to find what he’d been preparing for, only the gut instinct inside him telling him this was the right thing to do.  And he was glad to find that it was, that he was off to do something noble, something good.  He would serve a King and Queen he believed in, and try to give them the weapons their armies needed to fight this war.

But he prayed they stayed off that table.  He didn’t need that image with his morning hash.


	23. What Dragons Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greatest fears, examined. A Clash of Witches.
> 
> Feels. Just so you know. We haven't wandered *too* deeply into any sort of deep discussions about things that they might chat about whilst boning their way through the 30 days to White Harbor, so I needed to work in at least one more serious discussion about what weakens them both, what makes them doubt, what makes them afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We know she's preggers. She'll figure it out, too, but for now we'll get these kids talking about things that aren't easy, because together, my boatsex brothers and sisters, we will have these two at full "Ride or Die" status by the time this ship makes landfall. It is known.

“What thing do you fear most, Jon Snow?”  A whisper was all she could manage as she asked, her nose brushing against his as they lay facing each other, the ship quiet around them, candlelight dancing along the walls.

Jon’s eyes fluttered closed, and she ran a delicate finger across his brow, seeing his throat convulse with a swallow before he looked upon her once more.  “I don’t want to tell you that.”  His voice was a low, quiet rasp, his lips twisting in a grimace as she gazed at him suspiciously.

“Why not?”  She was genuinely curious; Jon had seemed aloof when he’d first come to Dragonstone, and while he had slowly come to speak more with her in his time there, it was wasn’t until Eastwatch, ‘til he’d held to her hand when she’d begun to pull away, that she had realized how much he held himself back.  He did so intentionally, just as she did in a way; she knew many thought her cold, heartless. 

It was the most dependable method Daenerys had found to ensure she let no one else close enough to hurt her.

She’d held Jon at arm’s length for quite some time, almost angry with herself at times for how intriguing she found him, how she’d had days where she was irritable at not seeing him.  When she would see him next she would force herself to be curt, almost snappish, fear twisting inside her stomach every time a thrill would shiver through her when she gazed at him surreptitiously, when no one else was watching.  Jon had terrified her then, with the capacity she sensed he might have to hurt her deeply, perhaps fatally.

And now, as she watched him stare at her with those sad, resigned eyes, a heavy exhale signaling that he was going to tell her, even though he didn’t want to, she thought how wrong she’d been.

Jon would not hurt her intentionally, she was sure of that.  But losing Jon Snow would break her.

She rubbed the tip of her nose against his, a smile working it’s way across his lips in spite of himself.  “It’s going to make you angry, the thing I fear most.”  Daenerys smiled at his gruff admission, her index finger now lightly tracing the scar bisecting the skin and brow above his eye.

“That’s never stopped you before.”  She smirked at him as he chuckled at her reply.  He hadn’t been worried over angering her when he’d refused to bend the knee that first day.  Or the several other refusals that had followed.  It made her all the more interested in what it could be, that he thought it would raise her ire.  “And most fear death, but you have already faced that fear.  Death, it seemed was more afraid of you than you were of it.”  Her voice was light, teasing, as she tried to hide the tremor of grief that shook her every time she allowed herself to remember that this man before her had died once before, that he was all too human for all that he had such a heroic, selfless heart.

“Aye, you’re right.  I do not fear my own death.”  Daenerys fought to keep her eyes open as he slid a warm, battle hardened palm to curl around the back of her neck, feeling his fingers thread into the hair at her nape as his thumb swept along the high arch of her cheekbone.  “I fear that you will die, and death will refuse to take me as well, that the fates will decide that there will be more misery for me in forcing me to live while you do not.”

It was as if he’d stolen the air from her lungs, and she felt her chest seize a bit as she struggled to inhale against the tight, awful ache inside her now, both from the thought of herself in his place in that terrifying idea he’d just voiced, and what foolish, reckless thing it would lead him to do to sacrifice himself for her.

She brought a hand to his shoulder, gripping him with a strength that seemed to surprise him, if his sharp breath in was any indication.  The firm, reassuring strength of him beneath her hand did nothing to lessen the steel edge to her voice as she brought her forehead to his, almost too close to see him clearly now.  It mattered not; she cared more that he hear her clearly than see her clearly now.

“Listen to me, Jon Snow, and understand that I mean every word I am about to say: Do not even imagine that you are going to force me to leave you behind again, that you are going to make me watch you die for me, in my place.”  She pulled back now, surprised at how angry she was, a little amusement striking her that he’d had the good manners to warn her, at least.  “I will not suffer that twice.  I cannot.”

Daenerys could not look at him, not right now, not at the memories their words had brought forth, at that dark, deadly despair that had consumed her standing there on that icy wall.  That in her worst moments she had thought her only course to be to climb upon Drogon one last time, to take her rage and fear and sorrow and misery at the loss of her dragon and the loss of a man she’d realized far too late she had come to care for more than she should.  It had filled her with a morbid excitement, that she would bring the Fire and Blood that remained to her against the Night King alone.  Dying herself, she’d reasoned, would be a sweet release from a life that seemed to feed on her pain, glutting itself more each time until there, in that moment of agony and deep, thundering sadness, she’d felt that nothing remained of her, anymore.

She felt the pad of his thumb stroke under her chin, gently raising her eyes to his.  “If I lose you, Dany, I lose the only thing I’ve wanted to live for since that Red Witch brought me back.”

“But…your family.”  She watched, surprised, he gave a slight shake of his head at her quiet words.  His mouth a grim, tight line, almost ashamed as he began to whisper to her now.

“I was ready to die, taking back Winterfell.  I thought I probably would…and after he shot Rickon, right there in front of me, as I had to watch my youngest brother die at my feet, so close to escaping that fucker…”  She watched his face contort with remembered pain, a slow, controlled breath allowing him to gather himself slightly.  “I was ready to die, then.  I had been ready to die since I woke up on that slab, Dany.  Before then, really.” 

He swallowed, his fingers now tracing down her neck and along the delicate line of her collar bone.  “I loved my brothers and sisters.  I nearly broke my vows after my father was killed in King’s Landing, when I learned Robb was King, that he was raising armies in the North and the Riverlands.  I did not make for Winterfell until Sansa came to the Wall.  I thought Arya and Bran long lost to me.”  His eyes had been following the path of his fingers, but now he looked at her earnestly, heatedly.  “But they are children no longer.  They must lead their own lives, and make their own choices, and I would still have no hesitation in giving my life to save any of theirs, but I cannot live for them.  I do not fear my death.”  The repeat of his earlier claim made her eyes flood, hot and burning as she finally understood what he had said to her that night on the deck, when she’d told him the truth of her first marriage, the witch, the cold betrayal by the person who should have cared most about her in the world.  No one had ever come to save him, he’d said, but Jon seemed to constantly be rushing from one act of impossible heroics to the next.

She was the only one who ever had, he’d whispered.  She understood what that had meant to him in a way she had not previously, why he’d looked at her as he had as he lay naked under those furs, still half frozen but with eyes softer than she’d ever seen them before, the intensity of his focus on her when he’d done away with the walls he’d kept around himself, walls as rigid as her own. 

Daenerys loosened her tight grip on his shoulder, her fingers rising to smooth his hair back from his face.  “I do not love you because I wish for you to save me, Jon, to protect me from the world.  I have learned to do that for myself, just as you have.”

His lip twitched, his brooding, melancholy air lifting for a moment as he whispered, “I’m not sure exactly why it is you do love me, to be honest.”  He gave a self-deprecating smile as she considered him, her eyes tracing the lines of his handsome Northern face, a wolf to any who glanced his way, nothing visible that would ever have betrayed the dragon at the heart of him; he had told her, haltingly, of the fire that gripped him when he fought, his mind clear of everything but the battle before him, the rage that had driven him to beat Ramsay Bolton within an inch of his life before he had allowed his sister to destroy the monster who had tried to destroy her. 

She had seen it for herself, the anger that had twisted his face as he’d turned from Viserion’s sinking body to the thing that had murdered her son, one of her children, she had watched him dispatch the undead attacking him in a deadly dance of steel and grace.  He’d admitted to her those lives he’d been glad to take, those deaths that did not linger at the edges of his dreams like those he had not been able to save, those who had deserved the justice he had given them.

“Because you are the only true thing I have ever had, Jon Snow.”  It was hard to meet his eyes as she spoke, but she did, forcing herself to keep her gaze steady, to see in her eyes what raged in her heart for him hotter than any fire her children could create.  “You’re not like everyone else.” 

He quirked his lips at her as she echoed his own words to her.  “I’ve spent my whole life being different, so I suppose you’re not wrong.”

Daenerys shook her head, fingers leaving the softness of his hair to trace the raised skin marking his chest as she did every day, reminding herself how close she had been to never knowing him at all, a remembrance with each touch that she’d best not waste the time she had been granted with him now.  “You imply different is less, worse.  But in you it is so much better, so much more than anyone I’ve ever known.” 

Jon was silent, cupping her cheek with his hand, the feel of it a familiar comfort to her by now, something he did so often, with gentle hands that shook sometimes as they caressed her.  “What do you fear most, Daenerys?”

“Besides the very thing you named?”  He nodded at her dry words, eyes encouraging her to share as he had.  There was one thing that terrified her, other than his death.  She wondered if she should warn him that it might make him angry, to deflect from answering, from telling him something he might deny if pressed but a thorny, sharp, fear that wrapped tendrils of doubt around her when she even considered it.  No more hiding, she thought.  No more wasting time.  Honesty made her vulnerable, but he had taken the leap first, and so she would leap as well, and in this at least they would fall together.

“That one day you will hate me.  You will decide you want things I cannot give you, and your love for me will turn to loathing and there will be nothing I can do to stop it.  You will despise me where you once desired me.  And I will lose you to another.”  She did not mask her gaze as she spoke.  She did not hide the misery inside her at what she could not provide for him, a child of his blood and hers, an heir to the last Dragons of House Targaryen.  She dreamed sometimes, her body tangled with his, of what could have been, dreams of red doors and lemon trees, of bearing as many babes as he could give her, of what it would be like to lay beside him large with a son or daughter that was only theirs, together.  Those mornings made her loathe to open her eyes, to face the light filtering into the room, still barren, but now aching with a ferocious hunger to have this thing she knew she could not.

And she could not stop a few tears from leaking down her cheeks and onto his neck as he pulled her against him, as if he were trying to take it from her, the tense agony she held herself with as he embraced her, just waiting silently until she finally relaxed against him completely.

When she heard his voice next it was gentle and hesitant next to her ear.  “I do not wish to convince you that you should believe my words over what you have lived for yourself, Dany.  But I have had my own experiences with witches.  Do you want to know what another witch claims, a witch who thought herself so much wiser than all those around her, a witch who practices blood magic as did the one you knew?”

Dany pulled back, meeting those eyes as gray as storm clouds, curiosity warring with denial and eventually winning.  “What?”

“That Red Woman, Melisandre, she wanted my blood.  As best I understand, she got some of Gendry’s.  I didn’t ask Davos for details, but it was the same with Stannis when she served him.  She even tried to seduce me to get what she wanted from me.”  He gave a grim chuckle.  “I refused, but Gendry was not so lucky.  Davos told me what the woman believed, what she’d told Stannis.  Why she wanted his blood, my blood, not even knowing there was more to me than the blood of the Starks, of the First Men, of the Kings of Winter.”  Daenerys shook her head bitterly, wondering more and more why she’d ever allowed that woman into Dragonstone, realizing each time she thought on it that she would never have requested Jon’s presence if not for her and cursing the woman for it all the more, for the pain she’d caused that mingled with the joy of the man who shared her bed because of the Priestess.

“She believes there is power in a King’s blood.  The power to do many wonders.”  Jon heaved a great sigh, hand coursing slowly up and down her back as he whispered, but the words rang through her nonetheless.  “She used that power for many terrible things, in her time with Stannis Baratheon, according to my Hand.”

Daenerys couldn’t fight a tiny, knowing grin.  “I thought Ser Davos gets carried away, Jon.”

“Not on this.  He hates her, wants her dead more than I’ve seen him want anything.”  His hand stopped it's stroking slide along her back, pulling the blankets up behind her where they’d slipped off, the air colder and colder with each passing night.  “She claims there is the power to create life in the blood of Kings.” 

“And you believe her?” 

Jon snorted.  “She’s as wrong as she is right.  All those who practice things such as blood magics are.  It’s an ill, dark practice, and I’ll not pretend otherwise.  I trust none who trade in it.  But as far as I can tell, both witches swore they had the power to return the dead to life, but only one of them was truly successful.  And it wasn’t the witch who told you that you would never bear another child.”

His hands were framing her face now, long fingers hot along her jaw and cheeks.  “It is not for me to say who you should believe, Dany.  Only you can decide that for yourself.”  He pressed a hard kiss to her forehead then, urgent, almost frantic eyes clashing with hers.  “But I need no more than you.  Just you.  I am no man greedy enough to ask for more than to love you for as long as the Gods see fit to keep me here.  And I will spend however long that is proving it to you.”

He gave her a sweet smile that began to seem at odds with the heat pooling in those eyes, that had bewitched her and beseeched her and now pulled her into that hazy mist of want and love and fear that grew as each day ticked by, another day closer to the end of the small, cozy world they’d created together.

But what he said…what the red woman believed.  She would think on it, later, carefully, and watch him sleep, and fight very strongly to keep a false flame of hope from growing in her heart.  Letting it grow would only make the hurt deeper when his seed failed to take her in, when months passed without life taking root within her.  And all she could do was trust that Jon was as honest as true as she believed he was, that she alone would be enough for him.

She had never been enough for anyone.  Not on her own.  But she could try to be enough for Jon.


	24. A Husband's Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some father/son advice from a Dadvos to an orphaned King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy oh boy, I hope you fellow ocean travelers have not gone into shock at a lack of update yesterday :) There's a four year old in my house with a fever, which sounds like no big deal, but when a child that age runs a fever with few other symptoms, and you give them medicine to reduce said fever, they start feeling fine and not giving you a moment's peace. Til the fever comes back and they feel like shit again. All of that to say that he's been making me crazy and cutting into my boatsextravaganza.
> 
> So - because I did not update yesterday this chapter will be one of two I post today. I intended to work some other things in here but they ended up working better in their own chapter, so I thought it best to leave this as some advice from Westerosi's Resident Love Expert, Dadvos.
> 
> Next chapter is calling for significant smut showers. Bring a poncho.

The Onion Knight watched as Jon and Daenerys worked their way through the newly revised marital contract Tyrion had provided them with as soon as they’d finished breaking their fast, one long wooden table now serving as a makeshift workspace as the Queen would take a page, skim it, and pass it over to the King.

If there was one thing Davos had learned about the young King he now served, it was that he had limited patience for being swamped with this particular, more mundane aspect of ruling, the sheer volume of hand-cramping busywork that most other rulers had advisors handle for them.  Davos did what he could, but Jon did not have the retinue of people to handle such for him that the Queen did.

At least, he noticed, the King did not wear the persistent slight frown and brooding eyes that he’d grown used to since he’d first met the lad as the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.

He owed himself a bit of a pat on the back for that one, Davos thought with a slight smile.  Oh, he may have been one of the most infamous smugglers in all the realms once, but he had a soft spot for love.  And he had known since that first day in the Queen’s throne room that there was potential there.

Jon Snow had an admirable amount of self-control and force of will, and it was not that the Onion Knight thought a beautiful face was enough to sway a man like his King. 

He had never seen someone get Jon Snow’s ire up so quickly.  And it had been almost amusing standing there, watching the two stare each other down, trying to force each other to bend with irritated stares and clenched fists held tightly at their sides and clipped words.  Davos smiled inwardly.  Whether Jon had considered it at the time, when they’d departed from White Harbor and set sail to beg aid of Daenerys Targaryen, it had always been a possibility in Davos’s mind that perhaps a young, unmarried Queen who needed allies in the Seven Kingdoms she wished to take from Cersei and a young, unmarried King who needed armies might need to consider marrying to secure what each needed. 

Jon, of course, had never mentioned it outright.  The lad really was too humble for his own good, too willing to sacrifice himself, still thinking more like the Bastard of Winterfell than the King in the North when they’d made this journey months ago.  Davos knew he still struggled with it now, that automatic reflex Jon Snow had of believing he deserved nothing more than the shit and misery his life had been, that haunted look on his face at times when Davos would catch him watching the Queen, as if he still thought at any moment she would decide she might have much better prospects than the man before her and change her mind.

Davos chuckled to himself as Jon finally lay the final page before them, Tyrion handing each a quill and watching as the pair signed their names, the silver-haired Queen nudging Jon with her shoulder as Tyrion reclaimed the contract, now concluded in execution but for the marriage itself.

“Too late to change your mind now, Jon Snow.”  The smuggler watched as Jon gave Daenerys an incredulous look at her jesting words.

“It was too late for that long before now.”  The Queen gave Jon a very slow, private smile in response, one that made Davos clear his throat and realize he’d better fetch the King now for a chat or he’d not get another chance for some time.

“Your Grace, might I speak with you privately?”  Davos’s voice brought Jon’s head swinging around, gray eyes curious but amenable.

“Certainly.” 

\-----------

Davos waited until they were relatively alone, above deck, the lightest of flurries whipping tiny flakes of snow through the air.

“You’re going to be a husband soon, Your Grace.”  Davos chuckled at the wide grin that flashed across the usually stoic King’s face, a rare flash of teeth and crinkling of the young man’s eyes telling the smuggler everything he needed to know about how things had progressed privately with the Queen Jon would marry soon.

It had been agreed that they would marry at White Harbor, the port being the closest location once they made landfall that had the only requirement the pair had asked for, a Godswood.  The Queen did not worship any gods, as she’d explained, but Jon still kept to the Old Ones and as they would fight this war in the North, the Queen wished to wed before them as well.

It was certainly the easiest choice to arrange, needing no sept or Septon on such short notice, only the King, Queen, and those who would wish to bear witness.  When Jon had asked Davos officiate the short, mostly informal ceremony, he’d been touched.  Jon had come to be something of a son to him, still young, with overwhelming responsibility a constant burden on his already heavy shoulders, and it made his heart glad to see the lad finally have something for himself. 

Jon had a family waiting on him, true enough, but Davos was well aware that no brothers or sisters could ever fill the void in a man’s heart that was specifically made for a wife, someone to trust above all others, and to be trusted in return.  Someone you did not have to hide yourself from, someone who would share your burdens and your joys.

Davos very much doubted Jon had ever thought to have such a thing for himself, too stubbornly unselfish for himself, to ready to sacrifice his own happiness for others.

But fate had created a very specific opportunity, one that Davos had seen grow more promising the longer he and the King had spent on Dragonstone; he had seen the way the Queen watched Jon, had begun to ask for his advice, had begun to trust the young King who might be an ally.  She’d tried to hide it, he knew, but there was no mistaking a woman falling in love, and he’d been sure of it by the time Jon had declared he’d lead that miserable raid beyond the Wall. 

Somehow fate had brought together an exiled princess and a secret prince, and bound their destinies together in such a way that a marital union between them need not be strictly political.  They had been brought together for love, as well, and he wondered if Jon really understood what that would require of him, in practice.

He watched as Jon’s smile remained at the idea of it, of marrying Daenerys and making her his wife.  “Aye, so it would seem.”  Jon scratched along his jaw absently, staring out at the sea before looking back to Davos.  “Seems a bit unreal, to be honest, considering I’d sworn my life to the Watch, had already made my peace with the things I’d be giving up in doing so.  I certainly never expected I’d be marrying the Dragon Queen, let alone marry at all.”

Davos studied Jon’s face.  “Would you take a little advice from an old smuggler?”

Jon studied Davos in return, considering, then nodding slowly, his gray eyes now alight with interest.

“No more hiding, Jon.  You can shut out everyone else around you, but not her.  Being married, it’s a lot more than what you two’ve been up to for most of this voyage.”  Davos gave Jon a cheeky grin, and laughed heartily as the King looked a little abashed his words.  “That’s just the most enjoyable part.” 

Here Jon laughed quietly, his eyes leaving the Onion Knight’s to stare up at clouds above, low and heavy with snow.  He knew the King still listened, though, so he continued.  “You’ve kept to yourself for most of your life, I understand, and it was by necessity.  But marriage is a partnership, and that means seeing all of each other, the good and the bad, and sticking together through it.” 

Davos walked over to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the King against the railing now, his voice dropping.  “She’s a good woman, with a good heart.”  He heard Jon give a small chuckle of remembrance and smiled.  “But she’s a Queen in her own right, she commands powerful armies.  She’s no pampered Lady who’s suddenly going to start being content with sitting for teas and sewing circles while you ride off to fight.”  Davos turned to look at Jon, silent until the King raised serious eyes to his.  “She’s a warrior.  And she’s not going to stop being who she is because you want to protect her.”

Jon swallowed, his brow furrowed as he mulled over his Hand’s words.  “Aye, Davos, I know that.  I don’t aim to change her.”

Davos pulled his furs a little tighter across his shoulders, chill creeping in through the open folds of his cloak.  “She’s known worlds of misery.  Been betrayed and used and deceived and hurt.”  Davos clucked his tongue; he’d spent quite a bit of his time at Dragonstone talking to those who’d travelled with the Queen.  He’d heard stories that filled him with horror and sadness for the small, formidable woman who’d brought dragons back into the world, yes, but who’d paid prices no one should have to pay to become who she was.  Neither of them had known much of love that did not come with condition.

“You’ll need to be patient with her, Jon.  She loves you, any fool can see that, but it’ll take her some time to realize you aren’t going to do the same, and it’s got nothing to do with you.”  Jon was listening with intent, Davos could see, anger making his frame tense at the mention of what the Queen had experienced, the King’s sword hand curled into a fist and flexing, opening and closing as if searching for a weapon to wield against the very idea of what she’d gone through before they’d ever met her.

“I understand.” 

The Onion Knight nodded.  “Good.”  He ran a hand across his face, wondering how the man would respond to his next words.  “One other thing, Your Grace.  When you make a woman your wife; when you swear an oath to her that you are hers, and she is yours, then your loyalty must be with her above all others.”  Davos drew in a breath as Jon stared at him, eyes unreadable now.  “Even above those waiting for you at Winterfell.”  The King opened his mouth to respond, but the smuggler held up a tentative hand.  “That doesn’t mean you don’t defend your sisters and brother, Jon, but it means that you’re making a promise that she comes first to you, and you to her, and then you examine your other considerations.”  He gave Jon a pointed look.  “That’s how you protect each other.  You allow no one and nothing to come between you, and you keep true to your word.”

Davos watched as Jon brought both his hands to the rail before him, bracing his weight against them now and leaning forward slightly as he gazed out at the sea once more.  “Thank you, Davos.”  He heard a sigh as the man’s raven head dipped, shoulders slumping a bit under those furs.  “I reckon that’s the sort of advice fathers give to sons.  I wish I could be sure.”  The King’s voice broke, and was thick with emotion when he finally gathered himself enough to continue.  “That I’ve lived my life in a way he’d be proud of.  That all he sacrificed for my sake was worth it, that he wouldn’t be disappointed with the choices I’ve made, the things I’ve had to do.”

Davos was shaking his head already, before the King had even finished speaking.  “I’ve had sons of my own, Jon, and I cannot speak to what Lord Stark would or would not think.”  Jon craned his neck, eyeing his Hand.  “But I don’t imagine there’s a single father alive in the Seven Kingdoms that wouldn’t be proud to of who you are, of the man you have become.  And I have to think Ned Stark would feel the same.”  Davos pulled closer, a hand clapping down on Jon’s shoulder as he looked in the young King’s eyes.  “I’m not your father, I know that, but I’ve never been prouder to serve anyone than you.  I’ve known no better man.  And it’s time to stop doubting yourself, and be the King you are meant to be.  For your people, and for her.”

Davos could hear the leather creaking in Jon’s glove as a hand tightened on the railing.  “Easier said than done, Davos.”

“That’s the marvelous bit about wives, Jon Snow.  Even when you are at your lowest, when you’ve lost all faith, a wife who loves you will still believe in you, even when you can’t believe in yourself.”  Davos offered a small smile at the young King who stood considering his words, as if what the old smuggler said hadn’t even occurred to him.  “And that’s a husband’s job in return.  Believing in her when she can’t find a way to believe in herself.  Sometimes, Jon, that’s all a soul really needs.  One person who believes in them no matter what.”

And that, Davos thought, was probably the one thing the pair of them had never had.


	25. The Wager

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys underestimates her opponent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ALIVE!
> 
> And everyone in my house got sick after TinyLights. Guess who got sick last? Yep, me.
> 
> Is everyone alive? Did you survive off snacks? Thank goodness.
> 
> I present to you, clocking in at 8800+ words, the chapter that was promised.
> 
> Apologies for the delay, but see, when I deliver I give you a megachapter, boatsexers.
> 
> Let's do this!

By the time Jon opened his eyes the Queen had made her haphazard way through exactly half of one trunk, shaking out dress after dress as she pulled it free and then tossing it to the side as she deduced it would not work.  She’d begun her search standing but now was kneeling, skirts and silks surrounding her in piles as she continued to dig.

“Dany?”  She did not look up, pulling free yet another thin, silky dress much more fitting for an Essosi climate than the chill of the North.

“Yes?”  She was nearly breathless, hurrying to find something Missandei could begin altering for her wedding to Jon, but having trouble finding anything substantial enough to keep her warm under the much more lightweight maiden cloak she would wear during parts of the ceremony.  She let out a frustrated groan, turning to unlatch the lid of the next trunk, sighing with relief as she found the smaller selection of woolen dresses she’d had prepared before their departure.

Daenerys had slowed her pace considerably now that her quarry had been located, and she was thoughtfully thumbing the skirts of a simple ivory woolen dress when she felt the heat of him at her back, his hands sliding up to her shoulders and down her arm as he placed a kiss to the side of her neck.  “Seems awfully early for such an adventure.”  His head turned as he examined the piles of discarded dresses she’d left in her wake in her frenzied search.

She decided the white wool would work best, and folded the dress over her arm as she watched Jon bend down and retrieve a silk dress from the floor.  He held it up by one strappy shoulder, flinty eyes confused as he looked at her.  “What is this?”

Dany laughed, shaking her head as she walked past him and the flimsy dress he held between two fingers.  “It’s a dress, Jon.”

Jon was silent for a moment, his eyes searching the lines of a dress that, to be perfectly honest, was one of the least substantial from her time in Mereen.  She couldn’t contain a small giggle as he scoffed, grinning as if he thought she was deceiving him.  “Honestly, though.”  His other hand lifted one of the thin blue straps that ran across the midsection of the dress, and he turned it over in his hands, examining it more closely.  “Is it for weapons?  Blades perhaps?”

He looked so thoroughly innocent then, so charmingly boyish that she could not help but laugh, his head snapping up and lips spreading in a curious smile as she placed the white wool on the bed and walked over to him.  “Look.”  Her whisper brought his gaze to meet hers as she took the dress from him, grabbing it by the shoulders and holding it up to her body.  “See?  A dress.” 

Those lovely gray eyes, the one thing Jon could not manage to keep as stoic as his face, she’d learned, grew large and he blew out a great breath, shaking his head slowly in the negative.  “Come now, Dany, there’s no way that’s a real dress.”  She let her eyes run down her body now, seeing what he saw, just the vague idea of what this actually looked like when she wore it.  She was struck by a rush of heat then, one that flushed her cheeks and made the sensitive tips of her breasts harden as she pictured what his reaction would be if she really wore it, how something so scandalously designed would provoke something carnal within him. 

And once she’d pictured it she realized she desperately wanted to see it, really, needed to see that face that he’d made every time he’d seen her in something that showed far more of her flesh that the more modest Northern fashions he was familiar with.  His eyes would flash and he would dip his head, just for a moment, as if he weren’t supposed to be seeing her that way, as if he hadn’t grown far more intimate with her completely bare to him.  But then, always, he would be unable to resist the urge to look upon her and his eyes would devour her completely before his hands and mouth would be compelled to do the same.

She had already lost several shifts to their combined impatience, one which he had rent completely from the neckline to the hem, and it had been thrilling, because Jon Snow was a man who had deep, deep reserves of self-control.  He was always gentle with her unless she asked otherwise, more than willing to be rougher, wilder with her but not without her request. 

It took far greater discipline than she herself possessed, and it made those moments when she’d finally tested those final limits, when she’d managed to draw him so far into his desire for her that he did not hold back, could not stop himself from much less composed, much more primal responses thrilling.  It made her feel tremendously powerful, in those moments, to be the reason he completely lost himself in her, and the look in his eyes as it began to sink in that she was truly serious about the scraps of fabric she held to her body helped her decide her next move.

“I’m not sure you’re ready to see me in this dress, my King.”  She gave him a knowing smirk as she dangled the dress from her fingers once more, handing it back to him.  He took it warily, gray stare darting back and forth between the garment and the Queen.  Dany leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, drawing back to whisper, “I’m afraid it would be far too revealing for someone of more…Northern sensibilities.”

Jon leaned back then, unexpectedly, a gleam in his eye suddenly that made a thrill shiver through her. He crossed his arms across his chest, chuckling as her eyes.  “You think I wouldn’t be able to control myself if you wore this, don’t you?”  He scoffed.  “Dany, I will remind you that I was in the Night’s Watch for *years*.”

She smiled slowly.  “Would you care to make a wager?”  She could feel the heat building in her eyes as if it were a living flame, allowing her own gaze to slide slowly, hungrily over his body, clad only in the breeches he’d pulled on when he’d risen and joined her.  Dany almost moaned at the heat of him as she stood far more closely to him than necessary, letting one gentle finger tease from the center of his chest to the sloppily tied laces below his navel.  Jon said nothing now, his eyes watching her finger closely, only meeting hers once she stopped the motion and said, “Because I believe that if you saw me in that dress, Jon, you would only end up tearing it off me.”

Daenerys watched him closely, as her words brought a flare of hunger to his eyes, despite his roughly uttered, “Name your terms.”

A devious smile crept across her lips.  “If I’m correct, and you cannot help but rip this dress from me, Jon, then I am the victor.”

The King’s free hand came up to give her cheek a gentle caress.  “And in what scenario am I the victor?”

Daenerys gave him a sweet, innocent smile.  “If you somehow manage to make me beg you to tear it off of me, Your Grace.”  She pressed a hot, searing kiss to his lips then, her tongue boldly forcing his lips apart and dancing against his for several moments before she pulled back, both of them breathing a bit heavily.  “Do you accept those terms?”

At his mute nod she gathered the white gown over her arm once more, making her way to the wooden door of their cabin as she spared him one last glance over her shoulder.  “I should mention, delightful Jon, that I will not be seeing you again until we dine this evening.”  Dany spared a glance at the dress hanging almost forgotten from his hand, then back to him.  “That should give you much time to ponder exactly what you will see when I wear that tonight.”

She watched him as she backed out of the door, enjoying the slight hint of worry that crept across his features as he looked at what dangled from his hand once more.  He wouldn’t stand a chance, the poor thing.

\--------------

Daenerys smoothed her hands down her hips, smiling at Missandei’s reflection in the looking glass as her friend’s face appeared over her shoulder.  It was just a simple dress, really, unadorned, but when she looked at her reflection she couldn’t help but smile.  Yes, she thought, she could wear a dress white as snow to marry a man named the same. 

She should be nervous about this, considering it was her third marriage, now; She was two and twenty and about to be thrice-wed, which shouldn’t bode well for her if she were any other woman, or this were any other man.  But as she stood, still as a statue now, Missandei pinning and pulling here and there to adjust the fit, she could find no sense of hesitancy. 

Marrying Jon Snow made political sense.  She had accepted that this would be a possible outcome from the moment he’d entered her throne room, had already been informed of all who were considered eligible should she need to enter into a strategic union to aid in her campaign to regain her family’s throne, to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms as she was born to be. 

But she would not wed him for politics.  No, she would marry Jon because there could be no other for her.  He was meant to be her King, and she his Queen, and she would not lose this rare chance fate had presented her with; an intersection of her heart and her duty which did not force her to choose. 

“You think of the King.”  Daenerys felt a defeated smile grow on her lips and glanced back at Missandei, who gave an indulgent laugh before reaching forward to style the Queen’s hair for the day.  “Do you look forward to being wed to him, Your Grace?”

“Very much.”  Dany watched as her friend smiled, eyes on the silver hair she brushed.  “I’m starting to think, my friend, that my entire life has been leading me to this point.  To this war.  To Jon Snow.”  She released a shaking breath, exhaling slowly as the hot lance of fear that struck her as she considered the Night King ebbed, her eyes meeting her translator’s in the looking glass.  “And I cannot explain fully what it means to be so glad of heart at being wed to him.  It is a peace I have never been allowed before, to love a man before I join myself to him.”  Daenerys swallowed, standing slowly and grabbing Missandei’s hands as she placed the brush on the dressing table.  “But I fear so much loss now.  I fear for you, for Grey Worm...for all who have followed me.” 

The Queen squeezed Missandei’s hands tightly, feeling tears gathering but not bothering to fight them back, not here, not with her dearest friend.  “This is the war I was meant to fight, Missandei.  I must try to save us all.  But I fear I am leading us all to our deaths, and there is nothing I may do for it but try to win.”  It was a fear that pushed the air from her chest at times, a great thrashing beast that tore at her; she was leading her people into the most dangerous fight that could possibly be faced, in a land foreign to them, to save Kingdoms who did not even recognize her as their Queen.  It weighed on her, almost constantly, the lives at stake, because their blood would surely be on her hands. 

It hurt to bring her eyes to Missandei’s, an ache in her chest as she felt a thumb sweep beneath her eyes. 

“We follow where you lead because we choose to.  All of us, who serve you, who call you our Queen.”  Her translator’s voice was sweet with kindness but firm all the same, and Dany felt her throat constrict a touch, unable to respond.  “This is a Great War that we go to fight, and there is no single soldier in your forces who would not fight to save the living, who would not proudly die for such cause.”

“This is so very dangerous.”  The Queen’s whisper was barely more than a hiss, grasping one of Missandei’s hands as tightly as she could, the only way to express her worry, her fear.  It was choking the voice from her.

Missandei merely sighed, drawing her arms around the Queen and hugging her tightly, and Daenerys could feel the tension within her abate, at least for the moment.  Her friend drew back, a hand at each of the Queen’s shoulders, and gave a merry chuckle.  “We chose to serve the Mother of *Dragons*, Your Grace.  I daresay we all suspected our path would not be a safe, quiet one.”

She gave in to a watery chuckle, sniffling slightly then blowing out a slow breath.  She could not dwell in the weight of this, it was crushing and smothering and was inevitable, and she could not do this if she could not keep some hope in her heart.  “We will make our path as safe as we can.”

\-------------

The afternoon was spent with Tyrion, with Jorah ranging about was a dreary one, full of discussions of all the various Northern Lords, with plenty of discouraging insights from Tyrion.  If her Hand were to be believed, there was a Northman with a crossbow and hatred for Daenerys lurking in every corner of the North, just waiting to claim her head.

Tyrion had launched into a very deep and depressing analysis of why the King wished to wed so immediately rather than with his family at Winterfell, ranging from disapproval on the part of his brother and sisters, to fear that perhaps the Northern Lords would react so harshly to her presence that they would remove him from power, and that perhaps Jon sought to assure he remained King in the North by joining himself to her might as soon as possible.

It was at this point, now, as she stared out the window and considered all those possibilities that she heard Jorah speak.

“That’s horseshit, Tyrion.  That’s not why he’s marrying her at White Harbor.”  Jorah walked over slowly, taking a seat beside Daenerys and twisting to look at her as Tyrion watched from across the table.  “Tell me which you think is safer, Your Grace.”  He held up a finger, and continued, eyes studying her as he spoke.  “You travel with the King in the North as an unproven ally with your own armies and dragons, and the only guarantee the North has that you do not mean to strike from within is your word.”  Jorah looked at her now, almost amused, and shook his head.  “Or, you journey as the wife of the chosen King in the North, knowing that any who dare move against you do so with the understanding that their life will be forfeit the moment they are found, and that it will be their King himself who delivers the justice of the North.  Their heads are his the moment they so much as breathe in the wrong direction of his wife, his Queen.” 

Jorah shook his head at Tyrion.  “You know as well as I do that marriage is the best protection our Queen can have.  Why plant doubt where it need not exist?”

She saw Tyrion eye the older man skeptically.  “I did not know you to be such an ardent supporter of our young King in the North, Ser Jorah.  Is a pardon all it takes to buy a change of heart?”

Dany inhaled sharply.  She wasn’t sure why the two were needling each other so, but that seemed a step too far, even for her Hand.  She saw Jorah’s chest heave in an out, the man calming himself visibly before he replied.

“I may have been gone from the land of my birth for many years, my Lord, but I am still a son of the North, I am still a Mormont of Bear Island no matter where I may go.”  She felt a sort of amazement roll over her at the edge of pride in Jorah’s voice, and it made her wonder how very desperate he must have been to see his home once more, to be driven to betrayal.  It was a feeling she was still searching for, that feeling of home, but she found it in her to be glad that it was awake once more in the man beside her, who’d been there from the beginning of the path she’d set upon all those years ago.

She’d thought Jorah done, but he went on, eyes darting between hers and Tyrion’s as he spoke.  “The North Remembers.”  He chuckled, eyes meeting hers.  “A saying in the North, Khaleesi.  And it is true, we Northerners are blessed with long memories.  I remember once, years ago, visiting Ned Stark at Winterfell.”  She watched his head dip down, scrubbing his hands across his chest, eyes now only on her, and his voice was somber in a way that told Dany she might not care for what he would say.  “Jon Snow and Ned’s boy, Robb, they would have been around six or seven then, I suppose.  Lynesse and Lady Stark were inside the Keep, having tea and gossiping, and Lord Stark and I were on the catwalk over the practice yard, watching the boys swing around with their training swords.” 

She could not help but smile at the thought, of the young boy that Jon had been, a brother to share with and play with at his side.  It gave her that twinge, the one that pulsed through her that she would never carry a babe of his, a dragon borne of flesh, of them, an heir.  She pushed it down, emotions still a bit raw from her morning, and gave Jorah a nod to continue.

“He wasn’t as big as his brother, but that little raven-haired lad was fast as lightning on his feet compared to Robb.”  Jorah gave a little chuckle at the memory, but then his face fell and he rubbed his jaw, eyes darting to hers and then away, settling on his lap.  “Then Robb let Jon hold his sword, a new one Ned had given him to practice with.  That lad’s face lit up, taking a few swings.  I think even grim Ned might’ve given a smile.”  Jorah sighed.  “Then Lady Stark came screeching out, screaming at Jon to drop that sword, that it belonged to Robb.  Poor thing just stood there, confused as could be, while Robb tried to explain that he’d let Jon have a turn.  And when his mother asked him why?  And Robb said it was because he was sharing with his brother?” 

This man who’d been with her from the start, who for so long had harbored feelings for her that she would never return, suddenly looked at her with eyes of such sadness that her breath caught.  “Catelyn Stark didn’t see us there, on the catwalk.  She told Robb Stark that Jon was *not* a Stark, and *not* his brother.  Then she looked right at the poor little lad and hissed, ‘He’s a bastard, nothing more.’  She grabbed hold of Robb and took him into the Keep.”

Daenerys looked at Tyrion, then, whose own eyes were fixed on his lap as he listened to the tale.  Yes, she thought, he probably knew very well how it felt, being unwanted, unloved.

Jorah sat with his hand over his mouth for a moment, elbow on the table now, seeming lost in thought.  And when he finally spoke, it was more a murmur than the strident tones he’d had earlier.  “I remember the look on Ned Stark’s face, then.  That small lad looked up at him, with the saddest eyes, and Ned looked so angry at what Lady Stark had done, but then all that anger turned into a look of such sorrow.  We stood there watching him, and Jon picked up every single piece of practice equipment in that yard before he walked away.”  She could see Jorah swallow, his voice rough now.  “And now all I can think of is how much it must have broken Ned Stark’s heart every day, to see such and not be able to stop, to have to tell yourself every time that a life as the Bastard of Winterfell was the only way to keep that boy safe and alive.”  Jorah pressed his thumb and fingers against his forehead now, as if his words pained him.  “To see this little Prince of the Seven Kingdoms treated as though he were worth nothing.”

The silence was heavy, the weight of the burden unimaginable.  But as hard as it had been for the man who had raised him, she could see for herself how it had fashioned Jon Snow, the wounds that still lay below the surface in him.  She was familiar with wounds of that sort.

Jorah finally stood, his gaze straying to Tyrion as he circled around the table, coming to a stop in front of the Queen’s Hand.  “I wanted to hate Jon Snow.”  Jorah’s eyes shot to hers, and she merely gave a bemused shake of her head, not an unsurprising statement from this man at all.  “But I have seen for myself the kind of man he has become.  I have fought by his side.  And I am going home, Tyrion.  I may not get a grand welcome, my Lord, but I will not return to the land that birthed me without supporting the King my people have chosen.” 

Jorah shook his head, grimace on his face as he now turned his focus to Daenerys, who listened with rapidly growing surprise.  She knew Jorah longed for home, he had told her as much long ago, but she had to acknowledge that it pleased her, his support for the man she would wed, the King in the North.  “If it please you, Your Grace, I would swear my sword to the King just as I have to you.”  She could only give a silent nod, watching him pass a hand over tired eyes.  “Imagine how that could break a man, growing up around everything he would never have, brothers and sisters who would be Lords and Ladies, seeing all the things you would be denied yourself because of your birth.  Every day a reminder that you would never be one of them.  You would always be less, no matter what you did.”

“And now Jon Snow is their King.”  Jorah gave a nod at Tyrion’s intonation, lips pursed in thought. 

“Jon Snow is no regular man.”  Tyrion gave a tip of his head in assent, Jorah’s statement certainly true enough.  She smiled to herself, barely hearing the two men as they continued their discussion, thinking longer than she should on that poor sweet boy Jorah had described, smile dashed as she swallowed thickly at the picture of him in her mind, those sad lonely eyes that he’d had when she had first met him. 

She stopped listening completely, rising to walk to a window, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon.  It was nothing more than a blur of color, her eyes swimming with unshed tears, and she finally wrested control of herself away from the deep well of sadness and grief that seemed to have been Jon Snow’s life.  She could not dwell on his past just as she dared not dwell on her own, or she would be drowned with it.

Daenerys did not want to drown in sadness. The only way to face, now, was ahead, together, taking for themselves whatever happiness they could find along the way. 

They were days from shore, mere days from the moment when Daenerys would give him the birthright of his father’s blood, of House Targaryen.  She would allow him her green child and then she would take to the skies with him.  She would show Jon Snow what it meant to fly, what the dragon inside him could truly be.

But tonight, she thought, she and Jon would burn.

Tonight, she thought, smiling and excusing herself as she went to search for Missandei, perhaps they could be dragons.

\---------------

There was a fair bit of noise in the galley, she noticed, a larger group of men gathering and drinking and playing some sort of card game.  Daenerys had elected to remain outside the fray, taking a seat in a far more quiet corner, her pulse quickening as Jon finally entered with Davos.

She had realized her mistake mere moments after Missandei had helped her into this dress that Jon had proclaimed could not be a dress, and she had smirked at her reflection as Missandei had begun curling the loose hair around her shoulders into soft ringlets that trailed down her arms and back. 

Daenerys had stopped smirking completely as she began picturing him again as she had that morning, wondering if he would shyly duck his head at first, as he tended to do.  She wondered if thinking on it all day might have pushed him past that point, whether instead he would consume her with his eyes openly, and the rush of heat through her warned her that she might have given herself far too much credit where self-control might be concerned.  Just the consideration of either outcome was enough for her to trail her fingers down her throat, the need to be touched by him a growing hunger that far outstripped any teasing victory.

Now she watched him as he approached, Davos diverting himself to the loud ring of men across the room, and she almost wanted to giggle at the look of tortured amusement on his face as he took a seat. 

“The next time I make a wager with you, Dany, I will be sure to establish some rules beforehand.”  He was fighting a smile, she could see the corner of his lip twitching, but he valiantly kept a stern expression.

“Oh?”  She smiled innocently, taking a sip of wine as she looked at him.  “Such as?”

He took a bite of food, considering, and she let her eyes wander over him, palms warming as she felt the urge to touch him grow.  Jon swallowed, eyes meeting her once more.  “No torturing your opponent all day long into thinking about you wearing that, to start with.”  He shook his head and chuckled as she smiled deviously.  “Or false claims about some bits and pieces of cloth that pretend to be dresses.”

Daenerys leaned back in her chair, slowly, head tipped to the side as she smiled at him.  “I am confused, then, Your Grace.”  He took another bite, watching her carefully as he would any opponent on the battlefield.  “If it is not a dress, as you claim, then how is it that I come to be wearing it?”  She watched his eyes drop to the blue woolen overcoat she favored for riding, it’s hemline giving way to the sheer skirts of her dress that was not a dress.

His eyes bored into hers, inky black but for a ring of steel iris, a short, sharp exhale through his nose as he realized she was not putting him on.  She could not stop the wide grin that spread across her face as he dropped his head into his hand, his elbow supporting what appeared to be a very weary face. 

“Are you really?”  His whisper sounded almost tortured, as if he couldn’t even decide within himself which answer he wanted to hear.

“I am not a liar, Jon Snow.”  She laughed at his muffled groan, his eyes betraying his own amusement, otherwise masked by his tortured appearance.  “But I would be more than happy to prove it.”

Jon looked down at his plate, eating and trying, she realized, to avoid her gaze.  She couldn’t have that, not at all, and she slid off the slipper she wore and slipped her toes up his leg from ankle to knee.  Then his hot rough palm was on her own ankle, gripping firm, as he whispered across to her, “You rotten cheater.”  His aggrieved expression broke at her loud laugh, and she clapped a hand over her mouth as several of the rowdy crowd of men turned to glance at the King and Queen.

Dany toyed with her napkin, her meal finished, as she looked at him across the table.  He gave her a quick, amused grin and released her foot.  She slipped her foot back into her shoe, deciding to behave long enough to let the poor man finish his meal. He leaned back a bit as he finished, and she placed her hand on his where it lay on the table top, her fingers smoothing over the back of his hand.

“Jon.”  His voice was a purr on her lips, and she saw his eyes drop shut, only to blink open dark and intense and focused on her.  “Shall we battle?”

The King stood, abruptly, furs across his shoulders and stone faced, sparing a glance at the men now well drunk and playing a raucous game of cards.  Daenerys rose and took the arm he offered, eyes on his as he finally quirked a smile, leaning over to intone, “I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Your Grace.”

\---------------

Daenerys was moaning into his mouth the moment her back hit the door, arms wrapping around the King’s neck as she thrust her tongue hungrily against his.  All wagers and battles were gone from her mind now, focused only on the soft, slick feel of his lips against hers as Jon’s chest was pressed against her, and it washed over her only when his lips and tongue sought a path down the column on her throat, a slow wet trail that danced along the jumping pulse in her neck, that she still wore her coat.

“Jon.” His name was more gasp than word, but he pulled his head back, eyes hooded and dazed as they met hers.  “Come and see my dress.” 

Daenerys grabbed hold of his hand, pulling him with her to sit at the end of the bed as she stood before him, fingers working the trail of hooks that secured her coat.  Jon hastily shed his furs and leathers, tossing them in a rather haphazard manner that made her give him a bold, knowing grin.

“You may still yield to me, Jon Snow, and I will accept your surrender.”  She released the last catch, watching as he chuckled and stripped off his tunic, shaking his head as his eyes followed her hands.

“A wise man would, Dany, but I have always been more reckless than wise.”  Daenerys smiled at his words, watching as his voice trailed off as she shed her coat, the strappy Mereenese gown exposing sections of skin all along her chest and abdomen, the only real fabric the sections that hid her breasts from his eyes, and the gauzy sheer skirts that barely hid her legs.

“Gods be good.”  She thrilled at his whispered words and wide eyes, darting across her as if trying to see everything at once, and she made sure to exaggerate the sway in her walk as she came to stand between his open thighs.  Daenerys looked down at his head, black curls smoothed back as the King in the North was wont to wear it, and with one finger under his chin tipped his head back to give him a seductive smile. 

“Do you like my dress, Jon?”  She leaned in to whisper against his lips, all calm confidence until she felt those strong hands of his slide from her waist to the flare of her hips.  The moan she tried to control escaped, and Dany watched his eyes dart to hers with a flare of interest.  She desperately hoped she hadn’t given herself away, hoped he didn’t spare a thought at that moment to sliding his palm up her thigh.  It would be impossible to fool him, then, because her thighs had become rapidly damp with the want pooling for him at her center. 

Daenerys settled for pressing her thighs together tightly, just for a few seconds, barely easing the edge of the ache that grew with each circle of his thumb against her hip bone, the sheer skirt doing little to mask the heat of his skin as he touched her.  She watched curiously as his eyes became braver at examining what she wore, his head dipping as it traced one blue strip of fabric down to where it crossed another near her navel. 

Jon slowly brought his head forward, crown resting just above the fabric covered swells of her breasts, his breath a hot, teasing puff against her skin.  “Dany.”  He heaved a great, tortured sigh, his hands now kneading the round curve of each hip as he spoke.  “That’s not a dress.”  She watched, amused, as he raised his head, bearded chin resting against her chest as his gray eyes met hers.  “That’s a weapon”.

Dany’s laugh was bright, ringing out over his groan as he buried his face in her chest again.  “Are you being attacked, Your Grace?”

He did not reply, slowly pressing soft, wet lips to the skin just below her breastbone, making her gasp as his tongue slipped out to lick her slowly.  She shivered, helpless against it, knowing he probably felt her tremble and hoping desperately that he was too bewitched at the sight of her to pay much attention to her movements.  Daenerys needed to take control again, because if his hands on her hips and mouth on her chest were not stopped she would rip every piece of fabric she wore off herself to feel him against her.

So she chose to perch herself lightly high on his upper thigh, her legs still trailing down between his but her upper body twisting to press her chest firmly to his exposed one as her arms looped around his  neck.  Jon hummed appreciatively in his throat as she rubbed herself desperately against his muscled chest, her nipples so hard and sensitive for contact that she had to echo his sentiment, his mouth crashing down on hers to swallow her low moan.

Dany felt one hand firmly grip her thigh, the other at the small of her back now, anchoring her to his chest, and then suddenly he was pulling her legs across his lap, skirts tangling around her calves as he pressed completely against her now, the soft flesh of her hip and outer thigh now firmly sliding against the thick, hard length that remained trapped behind breeches that she now cursed for their continued existence.  

As Jon’s mouth finally released hers, their mouths close and releasing panting breaths that mingled in the small space between his lips and hers, she shifted her hips deliberately, teasing her thigh across his straining arousal and glorying in his shuddering exhale and the tremble in his hands as he thrust himself against her.

“Wouldn’t it be lovely if all this wasn’t in your way, Jon?”  Daenerys plucked at the fabric of her skirts before grasping the hand that was gripping her thigh and raising it to her chest, molding his hand to her still-covered breast as she moaned and arched into his palm.  She raised her head, giving a gentle nip of her teeth to the hollow of this throat before whispering, “All you have to do is what you already want to, my love.  Tear this off me and you may touch me anywhere you like.”

She was being lifted, his hands at her waist before she registered what was happening, and she found herself flat on her back on the bed, a breathless laugh bursting free as he came to lay on his side next to her, one shaking finger tracing from the base of her throat, down the valley between her breasts, slowly travelling down to circle her navel.  She gave a satisfied moan, raising her own finger to trace his lips.  She had him now, she was sure of it, as his eyes were dark as pitch and almost overwhelmed as he finally met her gaze.

“You do not fight fair, Daenerys Targaryen.”  There was a mocking censure in his voice, as if he had expected an honorable, noble fight from her.  As if she had any honor at all where he was concerned.  She gave him a slow, wicked smile, and the finger tracing his lips now came trailing slowly down his body, mirroring the trail he’d traveled down hers, but she did not stop herself as he had, and as she reached his cock she used her palm to brush light, torturous strokes against the achingly hard length of him. 

“This is war, Jon Snow.”  His strangled whimper made her twist her hips in anticipation, knowing she was mere moments away from victory, and his voice was resigned as he leaned over her, feathering kisses across the skin of her upper chest, dipping his tongue beneath fabric as he encountered it to taste what remained hidden to his eyes. 

“I suppose I should yield now, shouldn’t I?”  His short beard tickled against her chest and abdomen as he lips traveled down to her abdomen, and it took her a moment to respond as he circled his tongue around her navel before dipping it in.

Daenerys let her hands travel along his cheeks and jaw before wrapping them around the back of his neck, holding him against her, writhing helplessly as his tongue teased the exposed skin just above where her skirts began.  “I can assure that your defeat will not be a joyless one.”  Her voice sounded much more collected than she was, her thighs pressed together tightly, damp and slick as she sought to assuage the almost burning ache that threatened to overthrow her strategic campaign.

Jon pulled back suddenly, breaking free of her hold and she watched with growing glee and a fiery, consuming want as he sighed and brought a hand down to the laces of his breeches.  His eyes were hot and focused, watching as her tongue snaked out to wet her lips as he freed himself and stripped the pants off, tossing them carelessly to the side of the bed before meeting her eyes.

“A question, then, before I yield.” 

Now it was she who sighed, the rough, hungry edge to his voice making her impatient for him, and she rolled slightly onto her side to face him, her fingers travelling down his stomach, muscles twitching at her touch as she stopped just shy of his flushed, throbbing cock, tracing nails through the dark curls at the base of him.  “Granted.”

It was the devious, teeth-flashing smile that greeted her when she brought her gaze back to his face that told her she might have been very, very wrong about her impending victory.  It was possible, in that moment, that she may have truly underestimated him, and he confirmed her suspicions with his next words, a seemingly innocuous question asked as he cupped her breast, thumb sweeping across to flick at a fabric covered nipple.

“Do you want to know a secret, Dany?”

She gave an audible gasp, breath escaping in a shocked exhale, her disbelief at this most underhanded tactic warring with what she had to admit was an aroused admiration at what he had just done.  Especially since she had started that whole game nights earlier, asking him if he wanted to know a secret then telling him any number of things she’d imagined about him back on Dragonstone, things she’d wanted to do to him, things she’d wanted him to do to her. 

It was, by far, the quickest way to work the King in the North to a state of frenzied abandon, so seemingly floored that she, the Dragon Queen, had imagined any such thing about him at all that it had become a reliable way to stoke the flame in him when she wanted him fast and hard.  He had never told *her* such a secret, of course, only admitting that if he had indulged in such imaginings about her he was always so ashamed of such thoughts that he’d been unable to meet her eyes when he next saw her.

It was a ruthless, cunning move on his part, and she cursed that she had not thought of it herself.  “You know I do, you wicked man.”  Her whispered hiss made him chuckle, and he brought his hand from her chest to her cheek, cupping it gently.

“I will gladly tell you.  And all you must do,” he leaned in, lips tickling against her ear, “is yield.”

Her eyes narrowed, her breathing becoming shallower as the want to hear the ways Jon Snow had imagined having her in his mind, in his dreams won out over the need to withstand such an attack.  She had been thoroughly outmaneuvered by him, and she had not even seen it coming.

Daenerys pushed up, rising to kneel on the bed, holding out a hand to pull him to do the same.  She gave a shaky exhale as his hands journeyed between her breasts, warm thick fingers sliding beneath the fabric that covered her chest, the backs of his fingers teasing against her nipples before fisting the material in each hand.  He stilled, prepared to rend the fabric apart, waiting only for her request, for her to ask it of him.

“Get this off me, Jon.  Now.”  She was almost relieved, now, her body only tense in anticipation, ears desperate to hear the rending of fabric, to have him devour her completely.  A surrender so small was more than worth hearing him disclose some secret yearning he’d had for her, wanting to uncover another undiscovered part of him, to open him just a sliver wider and let her in.

Jon was silent, his face now completely taken with undisguised longing as he tugged his fists apart, bodice tearing through easily; she watched almost spellbound as he gripped the seam above the skirts, muscles in his shoulders and arms bunching and flexing as he broke through the waist and made quick work of the flimsy skirts. 

Dany watched, chest heaving now, breath escaping in pants as he fisted his hand in the material, sweeping it off the bed then turning back to face her with eyes of obsidian, candlelight reflecting in their inky deaths, and such hunger that she felt her breath catch in her throat.  She pushed her breath out in a soft sigh, something that felt to be a tangle of wonder and hot, molten fire coursing through her at the sight, because she could see the dragon that he was now; a twisting, sinuous need wound it’s way from up her spine, something with scales and claws that recognized the animal within him, the one he kept firmly tucked away, because she was the same.

Shamelessly she pushed him back onto the bed, barely a second passing before the climbed up his body, pressing the aching tips of her nipples against calves, knees, thighs; slowing her ascent to let the thick length of his cock slide between the valley of her breasts.  She teased her tongue against the head as she moved upwards, and when his hips bucked against her she only increased the push of her body into him, pressing him further into the bed.

And that fire was still there, in his eyes, features tight with tension as she braced herself on her palms, pinning his shoulders to the bed as she rested her weight against him.  Just one more little push, she mused.  One more little nudge and he would be unleashed on her; his dragon would dance with hers and the flames could claim them both.

Daenerys slowly arched a brow at him, and brought her legs to fit along his hips, sliding her soaked center against his stiff cock in a tortuous circle of her hips that made him give a guttural groan of her name.  She could not stop the drop of her own head as the felt the hot, hard heat of him slip along her folds, gliding against the sensitive bud above, and she nearly took him then.

But Jon Snow promised her a secret.

So instead she leaned down, bringing their faces even, her nose almost touching his.  “Don’t tell me this secret, Jon.  Show me.”

As soon as he heard her whisper he pressed his hands firmly against her back, pinning her to him them rolling them forcefully, together, his ragged breaths fanning across her lips from above now instead of below.  His mouth claimed hers immediately, tongue snaking out to twist and tease against hers, and she arched up, twisting and writhing to find purchase against the wall of his chest, friction to ease the crushing ache that she could feel crawling under her skin.

A trembling whine of need escaped her then, and suddenly a strong arm was under her back, hauling her against him as he pulled them up to their knees once more, his hands skating trails of heat against the skin of her lower back before gripping her hips and turning her to face away from him.  Daenerys could still feel the heat of his chest behind her, and she nudged herself back, arching to lay her head against his shoulder as she pushed her ass against him, cock sliding against her cheeks as she gave a teasing wiggle of her hips.

“Oh, gods.”  His groan made her press her lips to his throat, licking at his pounding pulse before biting at his neck less gently that she usually did.

“Show me, Jon.”  She whispered forcefully against his neck, sucking harshly at the skin before he pulled back, and she felt a surge of excitement as his hands joined with hers and he leaned her forward slowly, bringing her to her hands and knees before him and stroking a firm hand from her shoulder to the base of her spine.

“I thought about this, in particular, more than I care to admit after I took you into that damned cave.”  Jon’s hands came to rest on her hips, and she could feel the head of his cock teasing against her wet folds, her back arching sharply as she pressed back against him, seeking anything to push her over the precipice she was on, her thighs trembling with need.

Dany twisted her head, eyes locking with his as she gave a low moan and bucked her hips back into him once more.  “Jon, please.” 

A quick, sharp exhalation and he was against her, the head of his cock just nudging her entrance, and then he was inside her, finally, gloriously thrusting in hard, long strokes that forced a cry from her each time he buried himself within her.  It took only a few sweeps of his thumb against her clit to push her over the edge, finally, free from the searing ache that had built within her as she felt herself clench and grip and squeeze him and he drove into relentlessly through it, groaning with each flutter and clutch against his cock.

For a moment the only sounds were the slap of his hips against her ass, her satisfied humming, deep in her throat, and the deep, rough sounds of his pleasure at he pounded himself into her with measured, deep strokes now.  She slowly relaxed her arms, resting her chest and face against the blankets and furs beneath her as she rested her arms in loose curls of limbs.  As she did so, as she arched even more sharply, as the angle he took her from changed she felt desire build once more.

He was deeper than he’d ever been, having never taken her in quite this way, her torso flat against the bed and her ass high in the air, and he was hitting something inside with each push into her depths that hadn’t been stroked this fully.  She needed it, she thought desperately, needed him to give her more than these controlled thrusts, and cried out an urgent, moaning, “More!” that had him fucking her with an intensity that felt terribly exciting and made her fist her hands in the blankets as her focus narrowed to the long, thick length of him plunging into her.

It felt as though everything narrowed to just him, and just her; just the feel of him inside her, the sound of his broken cries and curses as he surged against her, the vicious smack of his hips against her as she called out his name in harsh, chanting yelps.

Perhaps that was why she barely noticed the slam of wood against wood as the door to the cabin was thrown open. 

Perhaps that was why the aggrieved yell of the intruder hardly registered, swamped as her senses were in the building release he was driving her steadily to, numb to anything but the heat that raged within her, happily consumed by the flames he’d created within her.

But when Jon stilled, his grip hard and tight on her hips, calling out a rough, angry, “Get out or I’ll fuckin’ gut you!”, she couldn’t stop herself from canting her hips back against him, his length sliding in and out of her at her pace now.

She heard a cross voice, slurring and clearly drunk call out, “You’re animals, the pair of ya’!” before the door slammed shut, still thrusting herself back against him as she chased what she needed, keening a sharp cry of his name that snapped his focus back to her.

“Oh, fuck, Dany.”  He snapped his hips to hers, his cock surging into her for a few slow, hard thrusts before his pace became rapid, frantic, drawing a loud wailing cry from her each time he drove into her.  And gods, the feel of it, the reckless, punishing pace he set only fueled her desire; that coiling spring of sharp pleasure growing tighter and tighter, her muscles tensing as he fucked her with an uncontrolled abandon and harsh groans that sounded as though they were being ripped from his chest.

It was almost too much, the frenzied way he was taking her, but then she felt her pleasure build to breaking, finally, her cries becoming broken shouts of his name as she came in great, clenching waves that made her legs weak and her hips jerk against him.  He gave a gruff shout as well now as he stilled within her, the tightening grip of her walls around him wrenching his release from him as he spilled, hot and flooding, a few shaky thrusts of his hips riding out the remnants of their pleasure before he withdrew in a hiss of breath.

Daenerys wasn’t sure that she was capable of much more than rolling on to her side, and so she did only that, a boneless heap of satisfied flesh and bone and fire that soon had him curled around her, spooned behind her as his breath warmed the skin of her ear.

It was then, surrounded by the warmth of him, breathing slowing, that she realized someone had dared enter her cabin.  “Who was that at the door, my King?”  He must have heard the warning edge to her voice, because he slid a reassuring hand up and down her arm, chuckling behind her and pressing a kiss to the warm skin of her neck.

“The Hound.  That drunk fucker.”  Jon was still laughing but she remained confused, and she slowly rolled over to face him, the amusement on his face giving her no choice but to smile in return.  “Pretty sure he thought this was his room, not ours.”  A finger traced along her brow, then down the line of her nose.  “Pretty sure he called us animals because he thought we were fucking on his bed.”

Gods.  This ship was full of drunken fools. 

But she snorted, giggling and pushing her head into his chest as he laughed as well, full and rich and deep, something beautiful in the sound of it that she had to raise her head, to see what it looked like on his face, in his eyes.  He was smiling wonderfully at her, reaching down to stroke her hair back from her face, biting his lip.  “I forgot to lock the door.” 

Jon grinned wider as she swatted playfully at him with her hand, catching her fingers with his then giving her his best attempt at a scolding frown.  “I blame your dress.”


	26. Noble Cause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The destined fate of House Targaryen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Landfall is in sight but there are still things for us to explore. Our final chapter will be our landfall day, so perhaps we can work in some surprise guests and old favorites. Maybe some dragons will get thrown in the mix. The SS Jonerys is the captain of it's own fate.

Jon walked heavily across the decking, letting the frigid Northern air slide into his lungs and escape in a steaming fog, struggling to retain control of his temper as he forced himself to concentrate solely on the breath entering then leaving his body.

She was there, of course.  He could feel her behind him, sense her approach, though he did not turn to see her. 

Jon was not sure what to say.  He was embarrassed, certainly, more than a little, by both the line of discussion he’d just excused himself from and his own overreaction to it.

Titles. 

Jon couldn’t help but scoff, even now, at the very idea.  He had a title already.  King in the North they called him, though he wore no crown.  Robb had worn a crown, not that Jon had ever seen it.  No, Jon had been at the Wall when his father had been executed by that little shit Joffrey, and in the end his brothers in the Night’s Watch had stopped him from riding to join his brother the Northmen had called ‘The Young Wolf’. 

Titles had not saved Robb, and neither had a crown, and Jon had little care for either.

But now he was the King they had chosen, and they called him ‘The White Wolf’, and he accepted it because the North was his home, and he would do his duty.  All the same, Jon had no want nor desire for unnecessary names and frivolity, to be bandied about by nobles as if it actually meant anything.

Jon went to war, now, and he did not much care what anyone called him so long as they respected orders and fought as best they could.

He blew out a breath, watching the heat of it cloud the air before he finally spoke.

“S’pose you want to know what that was all about?”  He trained his eyes before him, his resigned question finally drawing her to stand beside him, halfway expecting she’d answer in the negative and crawl into the warmth of his furs.  Jon could see her, just barely, but well enough that he caught the turn of her body to face his from the corner of his eyes.  Belatedly, he turned as well, expecting perhaps frustration or aggravation, but anything other than the soft studying eyes that met his.

“I know what it was all about.” 

Jon could feel his eyebrows climb; There was certainly no denying she might know him better than any living soul now, but he doubted she could truly understand why this bothered him so.  Daenerys had lived in exile and had suffered great horrors, an absolute truth that roused both terrible anger and an achingly heavy grief within him.  But she had also always known what she was, had been able to push herself past whatever trauma life had inflicted upon her by clinging to that one goal that had brought her back to Westeros, with her armies and dragons and faith in herself: she had a birthright to claim, a throne to sit, a people to lead.

Jon had only ever been a bastard.  He had no illusions as a boy that he would be seen as much else, and there had been plenty in his own life as he had grown who’d made sure he remembered his place. 

Her voice startled him from his reverie.  “You never wanted to be above them.  You just wanted to be one of them.  You wanted to belong.”  The Dragon Queen sighed softly, cold fingers delving beneath his cloak to place a hand steady and firm against his heart.  “You are a man who never wanted to be a King, Jon.  That I understand.  But just because we do not desire something does not mean we are not suited for it.”  Her hand snuck to his neck, fingers sliding under the leathers and tunic there and pulling him closer to her.  “Look at me, Jon, and listen well.  I am not inclined to deception, or false praise, and for as much as my many titles have cost me, I will have none amongst me who wish to bear titles they have not earned.”

Jon swallowed.  He knew that of her, that she would have no respect for any who stood before her claiming names they had no right to.  His eyes darted to the side until her hand, gentle on his cheek, turned him back to look upon her once more. 

“You are a King.”  Jon began to shake his head, to explain once more that no matter what truths he had learned about himself, to remind her that he had only accepted this title he had not asked for to save his people from certain death.  But now she held his jaw firm, both hands grasping his face, forcing him to see her, to hear her.

“You *are* a King.  Not because of a name, or a birthright, or any such nonsense.  It is who you are.  A man driven by honor and duty to protect his people from harm.  A man whose first thought is for others, not himself.  A man who has suffered as his people have, no pampered and spoiled Lord raised to believe that power was something he ought to be entitled to because of his station, his birth.”  Her eyes, almost indigo in the moonlight that barely filtered through the cloudy night, searched his, her voice so earnest that he could almost believe her.

Daenerys Stormborn smiled at him and he was undone yet again, finding it hard to hang on to his earlier frustration with her before him, a woman more impossible than he’d dared dream of; He realized it then, what Davos had told him days prior, could hear it in her voice and in her words, just as he could see it on her face.

She believed in him.  Without reservation or hesitation, she believed in Jon Snow, the King in the North, in who he was and what he sought to do, this war he must fight that she was now waging with him.  Partners, he realized, that’s what Davos had said a husband and wife must be;  She saw him as her equal, a King just as she was a Queen.  Leaders chosen by their people.

It was a strange feeling.  It was unfamiliar.  But it made a warmth spring to life in his chest, something that whispered to him of hope, and love, and duty as well.  Jon had not dared believe those things could exist together, certainly not for him.  He looked on her face, though; here before him was Dany with the brave heart and the fire in her soul and the will of Valyrian steel, a woman capable of all manner of impossible things.  Perhaps, Jon thought, her most impossible task would be making him believe that he could be everything she believed of him.

Jon knew one thing true above all else he had learned about her, and he gave a wry twist of his lips as he grasped her hands in his own, bringing her knuckles to his lips and kissing each before he spoke.  “I know better, by now, than to dissuade the Queen once she has set her mind to a task.”

“What a wise King.”  She smirked at him, squeezing his hands.  “But it is not my wish that you take titles because I wish it, Jon.”  His hands were free once more as she gave him a determined look and grasped the railing before her, eyes trained into the darkness before her.  Jon watched her for a moment, studying the set of her jaw and regal posture.  She had something to say, and she wanted him to hear her on it before he voiced his thoughts. 

As he grasped the rail himself she began, a conviction in her voice that made him draw a bit nearer as he listened.  “I have always been very sure of my destiny, Jon.  I told you as such when you met me.  My destiny, I knew, was to rule the Seven Kingdoms.”  Jon glanced at her profile, seeing the small smile that graced lips he’d once only dared to imagine kissing. 

“Then you showed me what comes for us, Jon Snow.  I lost a son to the monster we face.  I thought I had lost you, as well.”  He swallowed thickly at the despair threaded through her words, and reached a hand over to rest atop hers, relaxing slightly but only when he felt her fingers mesh with his.

Dany turned her head, then, and when he met her eyes she spoke once more.  “I realized, on that boat from Eastwatch, that I had been wrong about my destiny.  My destiny was to fight this war, and it was a bitter pill to swallow at the time.  I knew that if I were any true Queen fit to sit the Iron Throne I would fight for my people.”  Jon could only watch, spellbound by the play of emotions across her lovely face, eyes blazing now as she continued.

“Now I know I was wrong once more.”  Her hand was shaking as it smoothed across his brow then, gliding down his cheek to tuck against his neck.  “I am not the last.  And at last I see it, Jon.  I have seen the pattern, the design of it all, and I was so very wrong about my destiny.  Now I see that my destiny and yours have been entwined together all along.  It is our destiny.  The last of our kind, in all the world, with the last two dragons in Westeros.”

Jon found he could not discount her words, not on the face of them.  He still followed the Old Gods, after all, and he was no stranger to the ideas of portents and omens, both for ill and good.  And she spoke true enough, he thought, that something had certainly brought them all here for some great purpose.  This war had been his purpose for some time, though, and there was something about hearing that it was hers as well with such firm certainty that made Jon feel such ease.  The burden of this purpose was so very heavy, enough to crush him to dust beneath it.

He was not alone.

It settled on him then, an acceptance of that fact, and he almost started at the realization that he hadn’t believed it until now. 

“Over three hundred years ago our ancestors came to Westeros with their dragons.  And they used those dragons, those rare and precious things, to conqueror these lands and their people.”  She shook her head, eyes fervent and heated now as both her hands clasped behind his neck.  “House Targaryen was thought dead and gone, but we survived, Jon Snow.  We are the last but we will be different.  We come not to conquer, but to save.  Our dragons will protect the people, not attack them.  Our destiny, Jon, is not to fight this war.”  He could feel his brow furrow slightly, his breath catching at her words, at what it stirred in him.  “Our destiny is to win this war.”

Gods, her eyes, flashing violet and full of that fire within her that called to him.  “D’you know, I think I might actually believe you.”  His voice was rough and raw, dry from the cold and thick with the weight of the things he couldn’t say, the things she somehow seemed to know nonetheless.

“You should.”  Daenerys gave him a small, cheeky grin.  “If for no other reason than that I have set my mind that it will be so and I will allow for no other outcome.”  There was steel in her words, a sharp edge of determination that suggested the depth of her intent and the strength of her resolve.

Jon could only pull her to him, chuckling as his lips pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.  “I would wager at least half odds, Dany, that you could march up to the Night King himself at this point and order him to bend the knee, and he’d tuck tail and make straight for the Lands of Always Winter with sincere apology.”

Slowly, so slowly, she pulled back, and he couldn’t help but laugh at the scornful indignation on her face.  “*Only* half odds, Jon Snow?”

He straightened his face into a sorrowful, apologetic state.  “I cry your pardon.  At least half and a quarter.”

Now she gave in, laughing bright and happy and bringing it out in him as well, as she tapped a finger into his chest.  “That’s more like it.”  Her laughter died slowly, and her voice was much more serious when she spoke again.

“I wanted to discuss titles, Jon, because I believe we are meant to win this war.  We will save them, Jon, all of them.”  He wanted to fight it, the hope that was burning in his chest; Hope was not something he was well acquainted with in his experiences.  But it was there, and he couldn’t stop it and he wasn’t really sure he wanted to anymore.  If there was any one person that he could truly believe in, he suspected it might be her.  “I do not care what you wish to be called, what distinguished acts you would recognize in a title.  But I will have you understand that you are more than what you believe you are.  You are not just a Northman, or a Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, or the Bastard of Winterfell, or the King in the North.  You are all of those things, and many others.”

Jon closed his eyes, unable to meet her stare, at the understanding that lived within.  She was right, and he knew that with his mind, he understood it on the surface.  But he had spent his life defined by what had been the shame of his birth, his lesser status ingrained into his very skin and bones.  It was not impossible to rise beyond, he knew that.  He’d done that, before he’d ever known what he’d learned on board this ship.  He had become a King by his own merit before he’d ever known he was a Prince of House Targaryen.  It was a hard hurt to let go of, though, embedded and twisted into his soul and not eager to be yanked free of him.

“You will be my King, Jon Snow, and I will have none think you come to me as any less than that.  You are a King, Jon, and I am a Queen, and we will rule the Seven Kingdoms because it is our duty.”  His eyes had snapped open at her words, and she did not hesitate, then, to fully invade the heavy furs and wrap her arms around his neck, pressed against him and smiling.  “But we will rule together for love.  For hope.  That together, from our suffering, we can give our people something better than we they have known, what we have known.”

There were worst things to grow accustomed to than the feeling of a rather full heart, of that much Jon was certain.  It was unfamiliar and strange, yes, that was the size of it, but it was a lie to think that it was an unwelcome feeling.  There was something of a fragile contentment to it, tentative and warm, and his arms were closed tightly around her as if to capture it, this feeling that threaded through him, as if he were being mended and made whole.

“I must believe you then.”  She quirked a brow at him even as she smiled, gazing up from the circle of his arms.  “There can be none that exist that could withstand you for long, my Queen.”

Her smile grew larger, pleased at his words, and then she was kissing him, a brief tender brush of lips giving way to deep, stroking slides of tongues and nips of teeth and devouring of lips.  Jon could feel her hands bravely venturing for such a public location, even if they were currently alone, and it was as his hands cupping her ass, pressing her against him as her hips sought the hard length of his cock that she jerked her head back, her low command rasping from her panting mouth.

“Take me here or belowdecks, Jon, but choose quickly.”

Jon’s hand was in hers in seconds, pulling slightly as he made for the stairs.  “Not even a choice, really, as there are far too many parts I’d hate to see you lose to frostbite.”  He cut his eyes to hers, snorting at the way she rolled her in an exasperated fashion.  “Even for so noble a cause.”


	27. The Hound's Lament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gods he's ready to be off this fucking boat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, AO3 was being really weird last chapter, and my first attempt to post it was allegedly not found, but when I tried again it was there twice. I deleted the extra but the count still showed 27 chapters when there were only 26. Do not be fooled. Chapter 27 is here and it's your boy Sandor Clegane, keeping it 1000 times realer than any motherfucker in the game, son.
> 
> Enjoy, my boatsex fam.

If there were Seven Hells, the Hound had decided one of them was being stuck on this fucking ship.  Maybe he’d died out there in that icy shitstorm, and this was his punishment.  He glared as he looked around the galley, surrounded by some of the most insufferable cunts he’d ever encountered.

Leading that long list was the Queen’s Hand, Tyrion Lannister, who was currently debating the wisdom of the Queen’s dragons roosting anywhere near Winterfell with the King’s Hand, that old smuggler Davos, and whether or not it might scare the shit out of those idiot Northern lords.

“There’s nothing going to show those stubborn fools why they want Daenerys Targaryen on their side than the sight of two massive dragons flying overhead, Tyrion.  It’s strength they respect, and those bloody dragons’ll have them falling all over themselves to welcome the Queen.”  Davos Seaworth made a valid fucking point, Sandor thought, though he was more interested in why either of them decided to make breaking his fast an unending audience to their yammering.

The Lannister Imp sighed, taking another draw from a wineskin that kept the little man perpetually in his cups.  “And should some Lord decide to wish ill-intent towards the Queen?  Or attempt some sort of misguided act of defiance that would swiftly be counted as treasonous?  After the Tarlys I fear it would not take much for the Seven Kingdoms to decide the Queen is as mad as her father before she ever nears the throne.”  At hearing the name Tarly he slowly raised his eyes, watching the pair as Davos scoffed at the small man beside him.

“Tarly?  Randyll Tarly?  What’d that arrogant fuck do to get crossways with the little Queen?”  There was a beat where both men seemed shocked that he’d spoken, but Seaworth seemed to break free of it sooner.

“Betrayed House Tyrell.  Turned on ‘em and helped the Lannister forces murder everyone at Highgarden.  Sacked the Reach to fill Cersei’s coffers.”  The Hound felt his lip curl, his look surely as dark as the King’s Hand as he ground his teeth.

“Treason, then.  Fucking traitors.”  Sandor gave a disgusted laugh, angrily tearing into the hard biscuit in his hand and watching the Imp’s face grow tight.  He swallowed, chasing the dry bread with ale, and addressed Tyrion directly.  “Penalty for that’s death, straightaway, and you fucking know it.  What are you so damned sour about?  Randyll Tarly has always been an arrogant shit, only one with less honor in their bones is my damned brother.”  He gave the Queen’s Hand a knowing look.  “Or your cunt of a sister.”

Tyrion rolled his lips against his teeth, as if trying to stop whatever bloody stew of words he was about to spew, and let out a sharp breath through his nose.  “Very true.  However, burning a traitor who refused to kneel and his even less wise son is not going to convince the people of the Seven Kingdoms that Daenerys means to change things.  Ruling through fear is no different than my sister Cersei, the cunt.”  The imp nodded a deferential head to Sandor, who just shoveled another bite of boiled oats into his mouth in reply.

The King’s Hand just shook his head, something hard and shining in his eyes that reminded the Hound of what he saw when he dared view himself in a looking glass.  It looked like anger, burning and vengeful and barely leashed.  “So I suppose it’s better, less *mad*, to attack opposing forces with wildfire.  Best I recall, *that* was what the Mad King wielded, not fire breathing dragons.”

Fucking hells.  Blackwater Bay.  Someone, he couldn’t recall who because he rarely paid attention, perhaps one of the men at the Wall, had made passing mention of who Seaworth was, that he’d been Hand to Stannis Baratheon before he’d come to serve the King in the North.  His own eyes narrowed at Tyrion Lannister, a man he’d pitied for a time in his service to House Lannister, but he’d learned quickly that the Imp could be just as fucking high and mighty as the rest of his family.

The dwarf had the courtesy to at least lower his head in shame, just for a moment.  It was not down for long, though, as the Hound watched Davos reach a hand over and grab the man’s stiff coat at the neck, forcing Tyrion to look the grizzled old smuggler in the face.

Now this was some fucking entertainment, he had to admit.

“You killed my son, Tyrion.  With wildfire.  And he was no traitor.  He was a good lad.  You gave no thought to that, did you, before you sentenced him to die.”  The old man was breathing hard, his voice low and lethal and Sandor noticed a hint of fear on Tyrion’s face, mixed in with shame and regret.  “There’s so many fucking snakes in the Seven Kingdoms that they ought to be glad that girl hasn’t melted every Keep she comes across.  She gave them a choice, Tyrion, not a death sentence, and last I checked that’s more than treasonous turncoats like Randyll Tarly deserve.  Only a real tyrant would offer someone a choice then make it for them, and your Queen let them decide.  They chose death, and if your Queen wielded a sword instead of a dragon I doubt you would’ve blinked.”  Davos released the man, eyes drifting to the Hound who couldn’t help the nod of agreement that he gave at the elder man’s words.

Davos cleared his throat, composing himself.  “Way I see it, she passed the sentence and she delivered the killing blow.  She looked ‘em in the eyes as she did it.  That’s not madness, not in the North, my Lord.  That’s justice.”  The smuggler’s eyes returned to Tyrion, who was passing a hand across his brow repeatedly as if his head pounded.  A few heavy draws from his skin, however, and he seemed prepared to respond.

“I do not imply that she was wrong in sentencing them, but she had other options…”  His words were cut short by Sandor’s scraping laugh, a noise that even startled the Hound himself.  For a moment he wondered how it was that a Lannister could’ve lived this long with such an unrealistic view of the world.

“This is fucking war, Imp.  No time to be soft to every traitor you capture.  ‘Specially not for someone like her.  Any man in the Seven Kingdoms looks upon her will reckon she’s some empty-headed girl who lucked into some dragons to fight her battles for her.”  He shook his head, frowning.  “Thought you of all people would know that the only way these fucking highborns will take that girl seriously is if they know the price for crossing her.”  The Hound saw Tyrion shaking his head, and realized he was a fool to ever open his mouth in the first place. 

He cared fuck all for politics.  It was poison, in truth, and the Seven Kingdoms could do with a far sight less of it if the hordes of dead men didn’t kill them first.

But he’d be a bloody liar if he didn’t admit, just to himself, that he admired the Dragon Queen.  She hadn’t grown up like those who’d been resting their asses on the Iron Throne in decades past; from what he heard she’d spent more time living like those in Flea Bottom than those in the Red Keep.  Daenerys Targaryen had a force to her, a steel in her spine, and she’d saved all their sorry asses flying in on those dragons. 

Fire was no friend of his, but fucking hells, the sight of those beasts killing all those dead men had filled him with an almost shameful wonder.

“I’m sure the King will be swift in addressing any insurrection that may be attempted by his Lords, in any case.  But I can promise you he’ll answer that with steel, not dragon fire, and he’ll stare each of ‘em right in their bloody eyes when he does it.”  The old smuggling Hand to the King gave a sharp, resolute nod in the Imp’s direction then tucked into his breakfast.

The Hound thanked whatever fucking Gods were listening that the two men might finally shut their traps so he could finish his meal in peace.

Then, however, the King and Queen entered, and Sandor found himself eating faster, because that pair was looking at each other like the galley would soon find itself cleared of any but them.  Again.  Whinging about it was out of the question, but it had happened with enough frequency that he’d learned to choke down whatever was before him as quickly as he could lest he go hungry while the King and Queen were busy fucking each other on every surface they could find.

It was a surprise, then, when the Queen took a seat between the two Hands, the King rounding the table to address him. 

Fucking hells.  He’d wondered if this was coming, after busting into their cabin in a drunken stupor and, according to that crybaby smith Gendry, calling ‘em animals.

“A word, my Lord.”  The King’s voice was neutral, young face already scarred and lined more than the pampered shits twice his age that the Hound had known in the Crownlands.  He might be young, Sandor thought to himself, but no one could accuse the Stark boy of being soft. 

Clegane finished chewing, pushing off the table with one hand to stand before the King in the North, the Bastard of Winterfell who was no bastard at all.  “Fine.”  He gave a great, put-upon sigh and started walking ahead of the raven-haired man, pushing up the galley door with a fist.  “But make it fast, I’ve got a shit to take.”  King or no King, Sandor had a fucking routine to get through the endless days on this godsforsaken boat sailing them to an icy Hell, and he wasn’t changing it now, even for a King.

\-------------

“Why did you try to help my sisters?”  A simple question, neutral, and he was surprised enough by the question that he actually met the King’s eyes as the young man waited for the Hound to answer.

The truth was that he wasn’t really sure.  He’d done what he could for the little bird, poor sad Sansa who’d found herself trapped in the lion’s den there in King’s Landing.  He should’ve done more, and earlier, but it didn’t fucking matter now.  She lived, and so did that little wolf bitch sister of hers, that little girl who’d been lethal enough when small and who’d now, by all reports, become a deadlier weapon than all those Lannister cunts could have anticipated.

The Hound did not recall feeling things like pride in another person, but he could acknowledge it, just to himself:  those two had survived and found their way home, and much as he hated it, it made him glad.  Whoever it was that’d first decided to attack the wolves of Winterfell appeared to have made a grave error, because the wolves hadn’t died out, but their enemies were finding their way to death’s embrace steadily.

“What else could I do?  I’m not a fucking monster.”  Clegane stared moodily out at the ocean, waves foaming white, glad for a clear fucking day for once.

“No, you’re not.  I wanted to ask for your help, once we make landfall, Ser.”  The King did not look at him, his eyes instead on the horizon, waiting for him to answer.

The Hound only grunted.  “I’m not a fucking knight.”

The King was silent, but when he chanced a look over he could see a hint of a smile on the young man’s face.  “Good.  There are no knights in the North.  Shouldn’t need to swear an oath and have some fucking ceremony to have a code of honor.  I don’t tend to trust a man who thinks he’s entitled to respect because of some words he spoke.  I judge a man by his actions.”  The King’s elbows came to rest on the railing, his heavy furs whipping around in the strong morning wind coming off the sea.  “I may be a King but I’m only one man.  I need to know there is someone I can trust to be there to protect my sisters once more, Sandor, and you’ve proven yourself in that regard.  And there’s about half these Lords I don’t trust a fucking whit, not around my sisters, and not around the woman who will be my wife.”

“From what I hear it’s other’s need protecting from Arya.”  When the King gave a hearty laugh he couldn’t stop himself from his own small smile before coughing it away.  Gods damn him, he was fucking proud of her, his only regret that he hadn’t gotten to witness firsthand the destruction of House Frey.

The King's chest heaved with a great breath, turning to face him with a look of such barely controlled fury that he found himself, much to his shame, a little intimidated.  It was easy to forget that newly learned truth, that this man may look like a Northern wolf but something else lived inside him, something just a hot and dangerous as the flames he feared.  “Be that as it may.  I know my role to play in this war, and I know the Queen’s, and whether I live or die I need to know there’s someone who will watch after them.  I’ll not see one more fucking drop of my family’s blood spilled for politics.  I can’t stop the war that comes, but I’ll not lose anyone else because fools want to play games while the dead march for us.”  His voice was low and dangerous, spitting the words with a healthy dose of venom.  "And may the gods have mercy on whoever tries to take anything else from me, especially my Queen, because I will have no mercy at all."

“I ain’t swearing no vows.”  The Hound’s head twisted and turned, the decision making him grit his teeth as he ground out, “But I’ll not let harm come to them.  Reckon you’ve all been fucked enough for one lifetime.”

“I don’t want any vows or oaths from you, just your word.”  The young man held out his hand, waiting until Sandor grudgingly held out his in return, clasping each other’s forearms.

“I give you my word.  I’ll do what I can to protect ‘em.”  His eyes returned to the horizon before something else occurred to him, looking once more at the King’s profile.

“I want something in return.”  The King remained silent, studying him with serious eyes, and gave a nod for him to continue.  “We survive this fucking war, and march south? I want my brother.  His life is mine to take.”

The King’s mouth compressed in a thin, grim line.  “Agreed.”  But then, as the Hound watched, his eyes were considering, then contemplative, then decisive as he spoke once more.  “But if I come across him in the field of battle I cannot promise not to end him where he stands.  I may not have known Rhaegar’s children, but I know what your brother did to them, to their mother.  Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows.” 

Sandor swallowed, thick and heavy.  His brother was a monster, and sometimes it was easy to forget the crimes he’d perpetrated against people who weren’t his younger brother.

“Fine.  But you’d better fucking give me first crack at him, give a yell at least.  I’ve been waiting to take his life since I was boy.”  He saw the King’s eyes move swiftly across his disfigured face, burned and scarred, before he gave a sharp nod.

“I’ll do what I can.”  The young King clapped a hand on Sandor’s shoulder and moved to take his leave.  “You have my thanks.”  The Hound’s eyes watched the King in the North as he walked towards the stairs leading below deck.

“Reckon you can start protectin’ Your Queen by locking your fucking door, Jon Snow.” 

His yell must’ve made it to the King’s ears, as there was a short bark of laughter before the young man looked over his shoulder, shaking his head and calling back an almost friendly, “Fuck off and stay out of my cabin, or you’ll not live long enough to kill that monster you call a brother, Clegane!”

The Hound watched as the Northman disappeared from view, holding off on a genuinely amused chuckle until he was alone.

Not such a bad lad after all, he reckoned.


	28. Strange Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hunt for Dragons and Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright boys and girls, come along and let us see if Jon's warging has improved!

“Please?  I want to see.”  Daenerys couldn’t help the pleading edge to her request, sticking her lower lip out slightly in a pout as Jon shook his head at the sight.

“By the Gods, you know I can’t take that.”  He held his hands up in defeat, laughing as she smiled brightly and climbed astride his lap, no regard at all that any might stumble upon them in the shining morning sunlight that filtered through the stone-gray clouds dotting the sky.  “I suppose you want me to keep my eyes open, too?”

The King in the North was seated on the decking, leaning up against a wooden crate for support, and she shifted closer to him, hips against each other now as she leaned up to kiss the tip of his nose.  “Of course.”  She gave him a tooth-baring grin, her hands braced on his shoulders as he rested his head back against the weathered wood.  “Show me.  Dragons first, if you please.”

Jon sighed, his hands shifting to grasp her waist as he just smiled indulgently.  “As my Queen commands.”

Daenerys knew he’d been attempting this daily, ever since they’d learned the truth of his lineage, and she was exceedingly pleased that he seemed to be growing stronger in this magical Northern ability of his.  He’d been able to warg his direwolf, she knew that, but rarely because he willed it himself, and usually only while he slept.

But now Jon Snow could warg the direwolf Ghost during waking hours, could slip into the animal’s mind effortlessly, the bond between the two an established connection that he could traverse most easily.  And Daenerys also knew that Jon could find her children, that the days of reaching along those fiery tethers that were faint to him at first had grown a connection to the dragons as well, though it was Rhaegal who would tentatively answer back. 

When she’d asked what he meant by that, what he could sense, what that answer was, he’d reached out his hand with his finger extended.  ‘Imagine you are reaching out like this.’  He’d taken her hand, pulling one digit free so that her finger was a small distance from his.  ‘When I reach for Ghost, he reaches back.’  Jon had brought their hands together, slowly, until the tips of their fingers touched.  ‘Like that.’

And now, he’d told her, Rhaegal had started to do the same, sensing Jon through the fragile connection the King had cautiously established between them, day after day, as a spider would sense vibration along slender strands of webbing.  They were two days from shore, now, and while a part of her dreaded the loss of the freedom they’d had together aboard this ship, she found herself longing to see them together, in person, to see her beautiful green child granted the safety of a rider, bonded to the man she would call husband.

They would fly together, like their ancestors, Targaryens granted the freedom of the skies once more.

She shook her head slightly to clear her thoughts as his hands tightened at her sides.  “I should warn you, I’ve seen others warg, and it can be a bit…disconcerting.  My eyes will look strange.”  He seemed worried, his brow furrowed as he waited for her to respond.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Jon,” she cupped her hands against his cheeks, leaning in to whisper dramatically, “but we are rather strange people.”  Daenerys placed a reassuring, smacking kiss on his forehead, then drew back to say gamely, “Now come, my love, show me your strange magic.”

Jon Snow chuckled, and did as she requested, his head resting against the wooden crate once more.  “Ready?”  His whisper prompted the eager nod of her head.

And then, suddenly, those gray eyes were white as snow, his lips parted and mouth slightly open, still and silent as she gasped at the sight.  He’d never shown her before, whispered tales between them in the night teaching her why, what his Night’s Watch brothers had called him because of his wolf, because of what he could do.

Jon Snow was no abomination.  He was different, but then so was she.  There was magic inside him, just as there was in her.  She watched him, her eyes searching his features, the only sound between them the steady puff of air as he breathed, and she could not stop from leaning closer, knowing he saw not her but something else, something *other*.

It was his turn to gasp, suddenly, a great heaving exhale that startled her, and she felt a waver of fear as she watched his white eyes grow glassy, heavy with unshed tears, his features now almost shocked as his breathing grew ragged.  Dany could not help but tighten her grip on his shoulders, concern growing, but before she felt alarmed enough to shake him his gray eyes snapped back, wonder shining from them, not fear.

“By the Gods.”  His whisper was thready, chest still heaving as he grabbed her hands within the warmth of his, grip tight and he stared at her, trembling.  “I saw.  Gods.”  Jon’s rough Northern voice broke.  “I saw everything.”  Daenerys watched his eyes slide shut, and gloved hands released hers only to pull her against his chest, and she let one palm smooth a trail along his neck while the other remained on his shoulder, slipping along the soothing warmth of the furs of his cloak.

“They’re flying.”  An awed whisper against her ear, a tickle of his breath, and then she was leaning up to meet his eyes.  “I saw what he saw.”

Daenerys gave him a soft, sweet smile.  She wasn’t surprised; that he’d been able to feel Rhaegal and Drogon that first night he attempted it had convinced her that it was only a matter of time and practice.  It had been Jon who’d been worried, but she had been sure.  He was the blood of the dragon.  This, she was sure of it, this connection with Rhaegal, this was meant to be.

“Mere days from now, Jon Snow, you will see as I do.  You will fly with me.”  Dany thrilled at the excitement that washed across his face at the prospect, and found herself anticipating their arrival a bit more now, wondering what he would think of it all, hoping he would love it as she did.  “And when you fly, Jon Snow, when you soar above everything…you will know what it is to be free.  I will give you that freedom, my King; I will give you my son.  A wedding gift, if you like.” 

There were times, she had noticed, that Jon Snow looked at her with such intense love, such overwhelming adoration that she felt absolutely swept away by it.  It would have made her rather uncomfortable before, having a man look upon her so, but not Jon.  No, she was sure she looked at him in much the same way.  Likely when he was being very noble and honorable, as he was wont to do, because he was just the sort of man who behaved that way unthinkingly.  It stirred something within her, those times, because he was something very rare and precious, and though he might still struggle at times with the notion she knew one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt: Jon Snow was born to be a King.  It was in his blood, in his bones, in his heart. 

Jon Snow was the only son born of two ancient, powerful blood lines.  Jon Snow had died and returned from whatever lay beyond.  Jon Snow was a warg, with a living representation of his Stark blood bound for White Harbor from what he had seen these past few days.  And now, Jon Snow would be a Dragon Lord.

“Where is your wolf, Jon?”  Daenerys did not need to watch him this time, merely lay her head on his shoulder, nose pressing against his throat and breathing in the scent of him as his head rested against hers.  She could tell he was searching once more, having gone perfectly still, hands dropping to his sides.  And this time Jon Snow had an answer in mere moments, a sound between a laugh and a groan escaping as his hands came up to smooth against her back.

“Well, Ghost has made it to White Harbor.”  Jon’s voice trailed off, a pregnant pause that made her sit up, legs still straddling his thighs as she gave him a questioning look.  “I knew someone was with him, but couldn’t tell who.  Reckon she was hiding from me.”  Jon chuckled and raised his eyebrows.  “We should probably warn everyone that Arya’s with him.”

Daenerys raised hers as well, a brilliant smile that made her cheeks ache spreading her lips wide.  “Your warrior sister.”  He laughed, happily and loudly, and it was impossible not to hug him tightly to her.  There was a nervous ache that twinged within her just then, enough to make her release her hold and look at him, a bit more subdued than she had been.  Arya was Jon’s favorite sister, almost as much of an outcast as he had been as they’d grown up, and she was no longer a child.  The possibility was there that she may not like Daenerys, nor the idea that the Dragon Queen was marrying her favorite brother, and her chest ached with the thought of what that would do to Jon, that he might feel he had to choose.

“She may not care much for her brother marrying a Targaryen Queen, you know.”  Dany was able to hold his eyes for her first few words, but she couldn’t as she finished, her head dipping to study the variegated fur along one of his shoulders.  It went counter to everything her mind told her, but in her heart she knew that she longed for his family to accept her.  Not right away, of course; the Starks had known much suffering since they had been apart, she could not expect immediate trust and welcoming arms, but she dearly wished they would not immediately hate her, as Tyrion seemed convinced the North would.

“Dany.”  She felt a hand along her jaw, thumb sneaking below her chin to raise her eyes to his.  “I meant what I said before.  She gets one look at those dragons and you’ll be begging me to find things to keep her occupied.”  Those gray eyes, dark as storm clouds, were dancing in amusement, and she felt one side of her mouth quirk up in a half smile.  “She can be an annoying little shit when she wants to be, but I can promise you she’ll be very impressed by the Mother of Dragons.  Amazed.  Speechless, even, if the Gods are feeling kind.”

The Queen laughed, mollified somewhat but still cradling that little ball of nerves within herself.  “And how might you know that?”

Jon Snow gave her a rather knowing smile, one she recognized after endless hours and days and weeks now spent with him as the way he smiled when he was about to be very charming, even if he knew it not.

“Because every day that my eyes open and I see you there, that’s exactly how I feel.  And Arya and I, we were always the most alike.”  Jon gave her a gentle kiss, then pulled back slightly, still smiling at her fondly.  “She’ll be threatening to kill your enemies before you know it.”

“I hope so.”   She gave the King a suspicious look, then, the need to tease him a bit an urge she had to give in to.  “We shall just hope, then, that our arrival in the North together sends the right *message*.”  She smirked at his snort of amusement, linking her hands together around his neck now as she shifted her hips against him purposefully.  “That is, after all, the only reason you proposed this little excursion together, yes?”

Daenerys felt him tense beneath her, his eyes narrowing a bit, mouth twitching as he fought a smile.  “Are you accusing me of having ulterior motives, Your Grace?”

She shrugged nonchalantly, eyes roaming before she met his, then she leaned in to bring their faces close.  “Why not?  I certainly did.”  Jon gave a short bark of laughter, the sound rasping through his chest, and she gave a disbelieving scoff at his shocked expression.  “Oh, Jon.  The only way I could’ve been clearer about my intent is if I’d announced to everyone there anyone seeking the King in the North would likely find him in my bed.”

“Certainly would’ve saved me hours of pacing before I came knocking at your door.”  Jon’s eyes were wide and serious, and it was extraordinarily easy to kiss him then, a tender caress of her lips against his before she captured his upper lip between her teeth and tugged softly.  His hands were in motion once again, her hips in their strong grasp now, and she could not tell if it was her moan or his that crept out at the feel of him hard and aroused beneath her. 

“How quiet can you be, Jon Snow?  Because I’m starting to suspect you mean to goad me into having you right here against this wooden crate, in a most improper manner.”  Daenerys lifted her brows suggestively as she pressed against him now, smiling as his head dropped back with a solid thud against the wood and he gazed at her through heavy-lidded eyes.

His mouth did not seem to be suffering from the haze of lust that his body was, for as his hand climbed the curve of her waist to mold firmly to her breast, he managed an amused reply.  “I don’t believe I’m the issue if volume alone is a concern, Daenerys.”

Dany gave him a slow, leering smile, enjoying the way his eyes seemed unable to escape the soft fullness of her lips as she slowly backed off his lap, a brief twist of her head either way confirming that they were relatively alone in this tucked away corner abovedeck.  “Don’t worry, Jon.”  She was on her knees, now, holding herself upright above his calves as her boots grazed his.  His eyes grew wide, darting around as hers had as she began unlacing his breeches.  “My mouth will be otherwise occupied.”

Jon swallowed, and she watched for a beat as she saw him consider putting her off, but by then she’d loosened the lacing enough to work him free, pulling the heavy thickness of his cock out into the chilly morning air.  He gave a long, quiet groan, a hand resting against her cheek as she leaned down to tease her tongue along his length, now crouched above him and almost purring at the taste of him.

“I’d say we need to make this quick, Dany.”  He paused, and she stopped to peer up at him as she heard his breath hiss out, his bottom lip held tight between his teeth as she swirled her tongue around the tip.  “But I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”


	29. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a look inside a few heads the final day at sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I beg your forgiveness, boatsexers.
> 
> IRL has been a bitch for me personally the past few days, and has made it impossible to write anything. Especially fluffy sexy things. 
> 
> However, I think we're past that now. With this chapter coming to a close we are left with one final mega-chapter, to include:  
> Arya reunion(s)  
> White Harbor General Shenanigans (people, places, and things)  
> Ghost being the baddest motherfucker you will ever meet  
> Dragons  
> Reveals  
> A Wedding  
> A Bedding
> 
> Not necessarily in that order. I have begun this mega-chapter, the ending that was promised, and am dead serious that this mammoth will be closer to 10k than 8k. I thank all of you for the extremely kind words and encouragement as we've travelled together on an undertaking that has proven arduous and yet enormously fun for me to write. I hope you have all enjoyed yourselves as well, but enough chatter from me. On with the story!

**_Jorah_ **

Jorah Mormont found himself above deck as soon as the sky began to lighten, his eyes desperately scanning the horizon and his stomach clenching tight at the sight of White Harbor, still a speck barely visible, before him.

Home. 

The Queen had asked him once what he dreamed of, and that had been his answer.  He had dreamed of going home again and here it was, only a day’s journey away, and Jorah could not help the shiver of fear in his heart.

He had been pardoned, true enough, but he was not fool enough to think his return would be a happy one.  He would still be shunned by his family, by House Mormont, certainly by it’s newest Lady.  Maege’s daughter, by the accounts he’d heard from Ser Davos and the King, was as fierce as her Lady Mother had been, with little patience for those without honor.

Jorah would be a fool to assume that she would welcome her exiled cousin back to Bear Island.  And he may never see the home of his childhood again, that he must reconcile himself with; he may never set foot once more in the keep of House Mormont, see the forests of the island he’d been born on, but his feet would land on Northern soil and in his heart he would make that enough.

It would be a prayer to the Old Gods of his youth answered, he thought, eyes focused on the still-distant shore of the port city of the North; to die for the North would be a great honor.  In that, he mused, perhaps his old Bear of a father would be proud of him, though he had been such a disappointment to the honorable man in much else.  If his blood was to spill in this fight; if death was the destination he was sailing for now, then he would die at peace that it was a fight that was shared by his father, and perhaps he might find redemption as well.

\--------------

**_Missandei_ **

Greyworm stood staring through the window of the cabin that had come to be ‘theirs’, his jaw clenched with what she knew to be worry as she lay the last of their items in a large wooden trunk.  Her eyes left his still form, encased in his traditional uniform, and cast across the possessions that lay before her, a combination of she and he, of them, together.  They would travel to the home of the King in the North, the cold Northern Keep of Winterfell, and ancient sprawling structure of stone according to what she’d read in the Queen’s limited library.

The cold was still unfamiliar and bracing to her, but she thought perhaps she was slowly acclimating, and she had spent a great deal of time aboard the ship repurposing items from the Queen’s wardrobe and her own to keep them protected from the chill while still projecting the elegant, royal image the Queen desired for herself and her closest friend and handmaiden.

Sister, she thought, a small fond smile for the woman who’d inspired such allegiance in so many. 

Daenerys was her family, now, the bond between them forged not in shared blood but in shared joy, shared pain, shared victory and shared betrayals. 

But it was her bond to the man standing mere feet away from her that she thought on now, her smile growing soft, wider as she walked to him, her palms lighting on his shoulders as she rested her cheek against his strong back.

Greyworm was the gift she had never thought to wish for, a comfort and a security her soul had longed for, something sweet and tender in a life that had been anything but.  And now he turned, his stoic features becoming warm and gentle as he drew her against him to hold her tightly.

“What has you so worried?”

She felt him tense in her arms at her murmured question, exhaling slowly and drawing back to seek her eyes with his.

“The Unsullied do not fear our own deaths.  It is an outcome of battle, an honorable end.  But this one fears the loss of you deeply.”  She shuddered as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, hard and firm.  A promise, she thought, to protect her.  There was every reason to be afraid.  Missandei had seen what her Queen would face, what the King in the North would be fighting to protect them all from.  She had seen what their fates would be if these chosen rulers failed.

She feared the loss of him, the loss of this stoic, serious wonderful man with a warrior’s soul but a gentle heart, a man who had been denied love all his life but was so naturally gifted in giving it. 

This was no time for doubt, though, not anymore.  The only way to bear the enormity of what the Queen and her King must do was to have hope, that the same fates that had bound Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow on this course chose them because they could defeat this foe.  The Queen had told her the significance of the King’s own dragon blood, that she suspected he would fly the dragon the Queen had unknowingly named for his father. 

Missandei would have hope that the impossible could happen once more.  She knew the tale of the hatching of the Queen’s dragon eggs, the magic that lay beneath the Queen’s very skin.  The Unburnt, an impossible feat.

Daenerys had told her a whispered tale, late one night, as Greyworm and the King had strategized once more, very much alike in their serious natures and their almost single-minded focus on the battle ahead once the men began talking.  A story tragic in it’s own right, as tragic as any she’d heard, of a young man who’d become Lord Commander of an ancient order who guarded the Wall of ice; a warrior with a kind heart who valued all lives, not just those of his own people, who’d been betrayed by his sworn brothers for saving those born on the wrong side of that same Wall from the army of dead men that lay beyond, ever approaching.  It was a story of betrayal and death, mutiny and murder, and that same young man had lain dead before being raised by the priestess Melisandre. 

An impossibility, to be sure.  But the Queen had described the wounds on her King’s chest, had told her of the King’s Hand Ser Davos bearing witness to it all.

And so she wrapped her arms around her lover, holding him as tightly as he held her, and whispered, “All must serve.  It is known.  But perhaps, as we serve, we shall live.”

\------------

**_Gendry_ **

The last blood of House Baratheon sighed to himself as he packed away the last of his sketches, an impressive stack of projects that made his hands itch for the weight of his smith’s hammer, his ears longing to hear the song he would create as he brought his plans to life.

He’d never been more nervous in his whole life.

Arya awaited them in White Harbor.  It had struck him, after the King had told him that news the day prior, that she was a child no more, and neither was he.  Arya was past the age of marriage for ladies of the Great Houses, at least 17 by his reckoning, and it had occurred to him that perhaps he had made more of his importance to her in his mind than had actually existed.

In the end, he reckoned, he was finally accepting her offer, travelling to Winterfell to serve her brother.  Her cousin, in truth, but he knew Arya.  Jon Snow was the brother that had understood her best, and it would mean nothing to her to hear he was not a brother of her blood.  He was her family, and that’s what would matter to her.

He was Gendry’s family as well.  It was rather astonishing to think on, that the rulers aboard this ship were his blood as well, Varys informing him that it was not just the bastard Targaryen blood of Orys Baratheon that bound them, but the Targaryen blood of his father’s grandmother as well. 

It was, well, strange.  He wasn’t sure how he felt about this, all of this, least of all the request of the King and Queen that he considering taking Storm’s End as his own, of legitimizing his own Baratheon blood as the Lord of that almost dead House. 

Davos had convinced him to at least consider it.  Davos had grown up in Flea Bottom just as Gendry had.  Davos understood the level of suffering that those that all too often went ignored by those of higher station.  Wouldn’t the people of Storm’s End benefit from a Baratheon Lord who could truly help them because he had lived as the least of them had?  A Liege Lord who would ally Storm’s End to the Rightful King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms? 

Could he find it in himself to do it for them, then?  For Jon and Daenerys, people he had come to respect, people he was sailing to serve in any way he could? 

They were his family.  Family was an aching, empty spot that remained inside Gendry, hollow since the day his mum had died.  Arya had told him once that she could be his family, as well.

He had been thinking on it, unease at the prospect of authority he was not sure he deserved warring with a sense of duty that had bloomed within him.  Gendry’s first duty remained arming the forces of the living; it was a responsibility that he willingly took on because it was what he was best at, the thing he loved to do most.  There was no hint of nerves in that prospect.

Could he do this thing they asked? 

Gendry walked slowly towards the planked wall, the hammer he’d made himself for fighting leaning there, sunlight streaming in through the porthole and dancing across the steel. 

Robert Baratheon had wielded a war hammer. 

Gendry crouched before it, eyes tracing the lines his hands had hammered and shaped.  He hadn’t known then, had he, when he’d forged this weapon, but was it merely chance?  It felt right in his hands, more true in his grip than any sword ever had.

Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End.

He let out a slow, steadying breath at the thought, his hand gripping and lifting the hammer into his hand.  Maybe he could do this, maybe he couldn’t.  But here he was, going to help the King and Queen make war, to save the living of the Seven Kingdoms.  It was terrifying, what they faced, but if he could find the courage to help them wage war…

Gendry reckoned if he could help them make war then he owed it to them, to himself, to see if he could help them make peace as well.

\-------------

**_Daenerys_ **

“You look worried.”  Dany had been watching his face for several minutes, seeing his jaw clench and unclench as he appeared lost in thought.

Jon glanced at her, his smile tight as he shook his head in the negative.  “Just nerves, I suppose.”  He turned back to the trunk he was loading, his lone trunk in the room they’d shared for the past month.  She moved from the window she’d been standing by, seeing how tensely he was holding his shoulders, the stiffness in his back.

Daenerys was pleased, at least, to see him relax as she came to stand behind him, her front pressed to his back as she wrapped her arms around his waist.  “Having second thoughts about marrying such a demanding, stubborn woman?”  Her voice was muffled as she rubbed her cheek against the thin fabric of his shirt, just between his shoulder blades, smiling to herself as she felt his chest shake with silent laughter.

Then he was shifting in her arms, eyes finally smiling along with his lips as he grinned down at her and shook his head.  “You really *are* mad if you think that’s why.” 

She earned a chuckle from him then, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips.  “How very unkind.  And coming from the Mad King’s Grandson no less.” 

It became impossible to fight back her smirk as he narrowed his eyes in return.  “A low blow.”  He gave her an amused smile, but it was already falling away as he turned his attention back to the trunk before him.

Daenerys understood this tendency of his, because she shared in the almost immediate impulse to close up, to stew on things within.  Like him, she had been alone in her thoughts and decisions, her own fears and insecurities things she dared not share with others, even those who swore to serve her.  Those were weaknesses, and such things were not for Kings and Queens to reveal to anyone who might use words shared in confidence against those in power.

She would have him tell her, though.  They were equals, and they would be wed on the morrow.  His concerns would be hers, and hers would be his.  If nothing else, in this she would be steadfast in her resolve.  This was something new and fragile, a tenuous trust existing between them that they must strengthen, as she had no doubt it would be tested by both man and monster alike before their wars were won.

And so she sidled around him, pushing the lid closed and taking a seat upon it as his movements stilled, handsome features clouded with hesitancy as she primly arranged the skirts of her overcoat around her and gazed up at him.  “Tell me what troubles you, Jon.”  His eyes closed at her whisper, and she reached her hands up to grasp his larger, rougher ones with her own.  “You do not have to hide from me.”

“It weighs heavy upon me today, is all.”  His eyes opened as he spoke, searching and sad, and at her questioning look he heaved a sigh and continued.  “I think upon all those who wait for my return in the North, and all those who travel with us…and I fear I lead them all to their deaths.”

As he finished he dropped to his knees before her, their faces even now, sorrow etched into the furrow of his brow and the hard line of his jaw.  “I have led men into battle before, Dany.  It’s not the fighting I fear.  It is the cost.  I wonder…”  He was embracing her, suddenly, holding her tightly against him, and she knew what he struggled with.  She did as well, every time she looked upon the faces of those who fought for her, because they did not truly know what was waiting. 

And poor Jon.  Jon had been fighting this fight against *this* horrible enemy for far longer than any of them.  He knew better than any living soul exactly what they faced, and worse still, few believed him.  They had not seen.  But Daenerys knew. 

“You are not alone in this fight, Jon.  Not anymore.  *We* will lead our people into battle, and whatever the cost is, my love, we will bear it together.”  Jon drew back from her, his face still the solemn mask of brooding she had come to expect from the King in the North, but the tension eased somewhat.  She brought her hands gently to his face, thumbs sweeping along his temples as her fingers rested against the thick dark hair smoothed back and bound.  “I know the weight of this.  I have borne it alone, as well, for a very long time.”  She could feel his hands firmly at the small of her back now, fingers playing in circles against the fabric of her coat as he listened intently.  “It is a relief that I never could have hoped for, that I would have you, that I am not alone anymore.  That I may put my trust in you.” 

Daenerys could feel tears threatening to spill, her lashes damp, but she did not look away from him as she whispered, “My trust is uncommonly difficult to earn, Jon Snow.  As is my love.  But I give you both because you deserve it.  Because in my heart, whatever remains of it, I know that it is you I was meant to find.  You were born to be my King, and I your Queen.  We were born to wage this war together, and to save our people.”  She gave him a watery grin as she sniffled, one of his hands rising to thumb away a tear that tracked down her cheek.  “And we will save them.  We will win, because together, there is no enemy that cannot be conquered.”

Daenerys gave him a firm, resolute stare, and he slowly shook his head, a half-smile on those soft lips that spent far too much time not pressed against hers.

“You make it impossible to brood, did you know that?” 

She smiled, a bit more at peace now that those sad, sorrowful eyes that had intrigued her from the moment she’d met him held more wonder than agony.  “I highly doubt that.  You have an enormous capacity for brooding, my love, but fear not.”  Daenerys could resist the pull of his mouth no longer, pressing a soft, slow kiss to his lips as she savored the feel of him against her, the taste of him a craving that had worked it’s way completely into her mind, her heart, the very soul that resided within her.  She reluctantly pulled away, watching with a sweet smile as his eyes slowly reopened and focused on her.  “It’s lucky for the King in the North that I find his brooding so devastatingly attractive.”

Now he gave a mischievous grin, and it pleased her greatly that he had returned to her fully now, that he had pulled himself out of the deep well of misery and doubt that had trapped him moments ago.  “If we are confessing, I should admit that you are very nearly irresistible when you are irritated.  Particularly when you are irritated with stubborn Northern Kings who refuse to bend the knee.”  He gave a sharp yelping laugh when she swatted gently at his shoulder, unable to suppress her own chuckle.

“Truly, Jon, you are so aggravating when you choose to be.”  He knew she jested, of course, as she was sure her face told a completely different tale than her words, and buried his face against her neck, nipping here and there lightly as she twisted in his arms, giggling helplessly as the rough scratch of his beard tickled along her jaw and the column of her throat.

“I thought you said I was delightful, *Daenerys*.”  Jon Snow drew out her name against her throat, and she could feel his lips twist into a smirk as he swept her up in his strong arms, a warrior’s arms, a King’s arms and deposited her onto the bed.  He was still smiling as he turned back to his trunk, now, drawing it back open and packing with renewed vigor.

“Delightfully aggravating.  Or perhaps aggravatingly delightful.”  Dany rolled onto her stomach, hands bracing her chin as she watched him load the remainder of his belongings.  She toed off her boots, letting them drop onto the floor beside the bed.  “Either way, we shall be wed tomorrow, so I suppose I have plenty of time to discover which you truly are.”

\------------

**_Qhono_ **

Tomorrow was the day he would be back on land.  Qhono was tired of boats, of sailing, of the cramped conditions such travel required.  He longed to range once more on horseback, the freedom of an arakh in his hand and his quarry giving chase. 

He had grown used to the pale men the Khaleesi had with her, had developed a grudging respect for a few of them.

The one named Gendry, who could fashion weapons, that one was acceptable.  A useful skill, and he did not run his mouth with idle talk.  Qhono didn’t care much for the excessive talking done by ones like the small man, the one called Tyrion.  For one so small he spoke enough for a dozen men.

Then there was the Snow King, the one named Jon Snow, and Qhono had harbored an instant dislike for the man at first.  His eyes were too serious, too intense for one who sought out the Khaleesi, but he had learned why.  He had seen the man of bones, dead but still alive; there had been fear that fired to life inside Qhono then, but the fear only fed his hunger for battle.  Dothraki did not fear, not man or beast, and he had no doubts that the horde would charge headlong when they faced this enemy in the field.

Qhono was uneasy, though. 

On this ship travelled several of the Queen’s Dothraki host; several bloodriders, and their woman, along with a few of the Dosh Khaleen who accompanied them to read the signs and the will of the Great Stallion.  It was they who had blessed the journey of the horde North, that it was the will of the Great Stallion himself that his people fight where others feared to tread, that they would fight by the light of the Mother Moon in this ‘Long Night’.

There were whispers among the Dothraki, both on the Khaleesi’s stone island and aboard her ship, about the Snow King.  Those of the horde who had labored in the mines with him had seen something, and if it were not just mere vague whispers he would dismiss it as the prattling tongues of bored men and women.

But one of the Dosh Khaleen had delivered a message to him the prior night, and he would speak with the Khaleesi about this King before he told her of the words of the wise woman.

Qhono found her that afternoon watching land steadily approach, and made sure they were alone before he approached.

“We will arrive tomorrow, yes?”

The Queen turned from the view and gave him a small smile, nodding.  “Yes, blood of my blood.  We shall land and then we shall ride.  And then, together, we shall make a great war and deliver swift death to our enemies.”

Qhono gave a feral grin that the Khaleesi mirrored.  “Let there be no doubt that the horde hungers for battle.”  He watched her, dropping his smile.  “The men say the Snow King bears wounds of certain death.”

The Khaleesi turned quickly to face him then, and he searched for the truth or lie of it on her face.  He would not believe it initially; there was no return from the Night Lands, and those who tasted death did not escape it.  But more than one of his men had described the scars on the Snow King’s chest, wounds they had seen when they would cool themselves in the sea as the mined.  Of careful note, he noticed, in each description, was the large scar above the smaller man’s heart. 

Purple eyes stared into his, and for all his might and strength Qhono found it impossible to look away.  “Before he came to me, the King was betrayed by his men.  He was killed.  He returned to the living two days later.”  She was studying him now, brow furrowed, considering her words.  “You told the King that I proved myself stronger than any Khal, stronger even than the flame, that I became the flame.” 

Qhono nodded.  All had seen her leave the temple alone, walking through flames that did not burn her skin.  It would be only a fool who would not follow such a warrior.

The Khaleesi continued, stepping closer as her voice grew quieter.  “Hear me then, Qhono.  This King we fight beside, then, has proven himself stronger than death.  On the field of battle, blood of my blood, he shall become Death.  Death to his enemies, death to the monsters that want to kill the living.  Jon Snow is the Khal of Death, for he alone is mightier than that final enemy.”

Something stirred within him, at her words, at the confirmation of what the wise woman had told him.  He must tell her, then, the words the moon had whispered.  “The Dosh Khaleen had a vision last night, Khaleesi.”  She gave him a slight nod, silently asking him to continue.  “The moon tells the wise women of the Dothraki that the Khaleesi will take a Khal, but he will be called by her as the Khal of Death.  But the moon says that just as his blood holds the power to destroy it holds the power to create.  For as he is the Khal of Death he is the Khal of Life, that the Khaleesi will bear many sons and daughters for him alone.  The Dosh Khaleen ask the moon to show them, tell them the number so they may tell the Khaleesi of her fate, but the moon tells them to look only to the night sky, to the stars, the khalasar of the Great Stallion.”

Qhono watched her as he spoke, his dark eyes fixed on her face as she seemed frozen, barely even drawing a breath.  “So shall their issue number, says the moon, more than the eye can count.  More than the clouds in the sky, whispers the sun, strong sons and pretty daughters with magic in the blood, to rule the pale men for generations to come.”

The Khaleesi took a great, shuddering breath, facing away from him as her hands gripped the railing before her tightly enough to whiten her knuckles.  “Thank you, blood of my blood.  That is a great comfort to me.”  Her silver head turned slowly to face him now, eyes serious.  “Will you swear to protect them as well?  And my King?”

“You are blood of my blood, Khaleesi.  I will serve you as I swore to.  And if the Great Stallion wishes it my children will serve yours, will protect them as I will protect you.”  Now Qhono gave a quiet chuckle, his mind turning over the issue of the Snow King.  The Khal of Death.  “But the Snow King has proven he can protect himself.”

“Where we travel there may be those of his own people who wish him harm, because of me.  These pale men do not change their notions quickly.”  The Khaleesi turned to face him fully once more, her hands braced on his shoulders, her face close.  “We will protect him.”

Qhono gave a grunt of agreement.  The Snow King would find no enemy in him, and if the Khaleesi so ordered, he and the horde would do what must be done to protect her Khal.  


	30. White Harbor Pt. 1 of 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> White Harbor, boys and girls. Not on a boat any longer, but we'll see what kind of shit we can get into. This chapter is nearly 8K on it's own, and Part 2 is currently up to nearly 10k. Rather than wait even longer to post the entire thing I decided I ought to quit being a procrastinating asshole and go ahead and put this chunk up since it's been such an unbearably long wait. Expect the final chapter within the week, my boatsex babies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I alive? Yes.
> 
> Blame my absence and relative radio-silence on a combination of procrastination, lack of motivation, and the general malaise of mothers who suddenly find themselves with a house full of kids now that school is out. 
> 
> The BIGGEST issue has, by in large, been the fact that I have now rewritten this finale chapter 3 times, hating it, and pouting sadly to myself. And it's a very daunting thing, when you've written in total about 30k worth of this and scrapped it because it was absolute lazy garbage. I could've posted it, sure, but honestly I just couldn't bring myself to. It was horseshit.
> 
> So here's what I have been able to compile, and perhaps it's what you were looking for and perhaps it's not, but should you feel this chunk of the finale lacking in what you were craving let me give you a head's up that the final part will include weddings and beddings and dragon riding but for fuck's sake we can't just go STRAIGHT to that.
> 
> It's jarring. I tried it. It was awful.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this groundwork laying section so that we may get into more of the "good stuff" in part 2, and I want to thank each and every one of you who has taken the time to read this silliness, and comment, and kudo - I appreciate it more than you know!

**White Harbor**

**_Jon_ **

It was Tyrion, standing before them, who commanded Jon’s attention.  Tyrion, the Queen’s Hand, who beseeched them with worried eyes as their assembled group witnessed dockhands scurrying to tie off the ship.  “Just promise me, both of you, that we will *stick to the plan*.”

Jon looked askance at the silver-haired Queen to his right, her hand curled around his bicep as they stood as close as they dared, mindful of the eyes that would now be upon them.  Daenerys gave him a subtle rolling of her eyes before her stern, unsmiling face was turned once more in her Hand’s direction.

“My Lord, I assure you that the King and I are more than capable of treating each other with polite indifference until such time as we are formally wed.”  Her clipped voice and sharp, definitive nod were extremely convincing, and it was sheer force of will that kept his own face solemn and stern.  He doubted Tyrion could see that she’d started tracing slow circles with her thumb against the back of his arm, her fingers giving nothing away where they remained still against a curve of muscle.

Jon gave a stilted dip of his head to the Queen’s Hand.  It was a good plan; the best they’d been able to craft, with Tyrion’s direction, a bit of stagecraft to minimize any and all impressions by his Northern Lords that their King had been seduced into an alliance by the Mother of Dragons.  They would remain cool but courteous towards each other this day, with Tyrion’s assurances that once wedded and bedded there would be no Lords or Ladies of the North who would begrudge them any signs of infatuation.

Signs rather like the overwhelming urge to kiss her senseless, Lords be damned.  Signs, he had to assume, such as wanting to strip that white furred coat from her form and feel her pressed against him, skin against skin.  Jon was beginning to worry that Daenerys herself had become an addiction far worse than Tyrion’s love of drink. 

Something burned in him.  He was aware of it now, returning to the kingdom of the North, in a way he’d never truly felt.  Purpose, duty; those had driven him before now, those had guided his feet down the path he’d trod to reach this destination.  But now something hotter and deeper was alive in his very soul, a destiny that he was helpless against, a love that felt as if it was etched into his very bones.  She had unlocked him, this silver Queen; this sweet, silly Dany who liked to tease him and make him smile.  This hard, righteous Daenerys Stormborn who fought for her people no matter the cost; this lovely, melancholy girl who’d been just as lost as he was.

It was this fire that would keep his features stony and his eyes from straying to long on her.  This thrumming in his veins would remind him to hold her at arm’s length while he must, to let her address his people as an ally in a time of war, to bind their houses together for peace.

And, Jon mused, if the massive fire-breathing dragons were not enough to convince these Northern Houses who they’d want fighting for them, he’d tell them all to fuck right off like the cravens they were and wage this war without them. 

He did not think they would enjoy the penalty to be paid should he and his Queen win, however.  Justice, Jon had learned quite painfully, could not always be administered with a kind heart.

On this day, they would wed.  Until then, however, Jon agreed that it was for the best that their behavior be beyond reproach.  They had one shot at this, he reckoned, he and Dany, one chance to show these stubborn fools that together was the only way to win this war; It would serve no one’s interests for their alliance to be perceived as one ruled by lust over sense. 

The only drawback to this plan, of course, was Daenerys herself.  Jon stole a full, sweeping glance at her as Tyrion turned to face the dock, one last unguarded look at the woman he was set to marry not once, but twice today.  When first presented he had initially balked at the idea; it was the Old Gods Jon kept to, not the New, and Dany had little preference for either beyond her wish to be wed, but after much discussion he could not find much reason to protest.  A wedding for the North and a wedding for the South it would be, and Jon found he agreed with Gendry’s thoughts on the matter: They were heading to war, so perhaps they were better off garnering the blessings of all the Gods they could.

“There, Your Grace, to the left.”  Jon watched as Daenerys followed the direction of Tyrion’s pointed finger to the great domed Sept upon the hill, the exterior carved with images of each of the Seven.  “That is where you shall wed this morning.”  Tyrion flashed a shadow of a wry grin at Jon, continuing, “It’s called the Sept of the Snows.”

Daenerys gave a hum of approval, her lips twitching at the corners as her eyes met Jon’s.  “How apropos, Lord Hand.”  Her eyes cast about the snowy landscape, the leached, weathered stone faces of the sea-facing structures almost as white as the powdery ice that coated much of the surfaces she could see.  “And when I wed this evening?  Where shall that be?”

Now Tyrion pointed far to the right, past the wall of the inner harbor, to the crumbling black stone structure with houses clinging to it’s base like barnacles.  Jon had to fight back his own grin now, wondering what she’d think of the name of ancient castle-turned-prison that housed the only Godswood in White Harbor.

“There, my Queen.  The Wolf’s Den, it is called.”  He could hear a chuckle escape from her at Tyrion’s words, but she was quickly able to stifle it, and he pressed his lips tightly together not to do so in return.  The Queen’s Hand slowly exhaled, clearing his throat before looking upon the ancient, crumbling fortress. “I should mention that it has since become…well, currently it is a…”  The small man’s eyes darted a bit, searching for a pleasant way to tell her that the Old Gods of the North would see her wed this night inside a prison.

They were all spared from the revelation as the heavy reinforced gangplank was finally dropped into place, the resonant echo of wood on wood snapping all their gazes to the dock before them.  It had remained empty since they’d first made port, save the workers scurrying to secure the ship; it was empty still, but Jon knew it would not remain that way for long at the twist in his stomach and the feel of his wolf approaching.

The King’s eyes scanned before him, the entry to the port a small distance ahead down the stone and wood docks that held several ships in the cradle of the harbor.  Jon leaned in slightly, resisting the temptation to press his lips to the sweet skin behind her ear as he whispered, “My wolf approaches, Dany.  I suspect he is rather anxious to meet you.” He received a soft, shy smile in return, one that would not look out of place to the Northerners watching them as they disembarked, and she only broke her violet gaze to cast her eyes about the scenery surrounding them.   

Then he heard it; all those disembarking could not ignore the eerie howl that split the air before Ghost’s massive, hulking body appeared a distance away, red searching eyes finding them catching Jon’s before beginning to pad down the walkway towards the King in the North.  Oh, the gladness that spread through his heart, the hammering of blood through his veins at the sight of his great white wolf!  Jon could not stop the grin that split his face, that made his cheeks feel as though they were aching with the force of it, and his smile only grew wider at the slight form that walked beside Ghost, still hooded but known well to Jon Snow.

All stood in silence as the pair approached, and Jon could not help but look to Daenerys just beside him, her eyes excited and full of careful, measured happiness.  “Go.”  Her lips formed the soundless words, giving him a fleeting smile and a nod of her head towards the two that approached, her violet eyes now locked on to Ghost with an expression of wonder.

It was Ghost who reached Jon first, the Queen’s party still gathered behind him watching as the wolf drew near the King, whining in excitement and chuffing at Jon as he rubbed his great furry cheeks against Jon’s face in greeting.  And it was not inside Jon, not now, to contain his happiness; his arms readily circled the neck of this brother of his blood, his most steadfast companion and his eyes felt hot and embarrassingly wet as he sank his face into the wolf’s fur. 

Home, Jon thought, and he felt Ghost’s answering rumble against him in agreement.  It was enough to distract him, at least momentarily, and he did not raise his head again until he heard a throat clearing loudly before him. 

Jon could do no more than raise his head and stand, time seeming to pass in a slow, viscous fashion, until his eyes clashed with eyes just as grey as his own as she drew back her hood, his littlest sister before him but little no longer.

“You expecting me to call you ‘Your Grace’ now, brother?”  At the sound of her jesting tone time seemed snap back to itself, and he gave her an answering grin as he took her in, marveling at the changes the years had wrought in her.

Arya was a woman grown, that was something he’d known, but the reality of it, the proof of the years passed since he’d last ruffled the hair of his favorite sister and given her a little sword crashing down around his ears and causing a small sob to break from his lips as his chest heaved.  She stood before him, taller and leaner, a hooded cloak around her head and shoulders, clad in leather armor that resembled his own.  There was a dagger strapped to her waist, along with his last gift to her, Needle. 

For a moment his vision blurred, eyes heavy with sorrow that he saw echoed in her eyes, and he could do no more than hold his arms out.  The speed at which she sprang forward made him chuckle even as he felt a tear track down his cheek, but he could not bring himself to give a single shit at what anyone watching thought as he hugged his little sister tightly to him, probably crushing the air from her chest at the force of his embrace.

“I’m so glad you’re here, sister.”  Jon knew it was little more than a whisper against her hair, but Arya heard him, giving a nod as she sniffed and shoved a gloved hand under each eye.  She drew back then, a hand on each of his shoulders as she studied his face carefully, then looked quickly over his shoulder to where he knew the Queen stood.

“I’m glad I’m here too, brother.”  She gazed into his eyes once more, her eyes narrowing as she glanced back over his shoulder to the Queen again.  Jon noticed the silence that still enveloped the rest of his travelling party, heavy and thick as if every breath were drawn and held in wonder.

It was obvious as soon as he saw the scene unfolding, of course.  It was something out of a legend or fairy tale, the beautiful Silver Queen standing before his massive wolf, Ghost’s muzzle clearing the crown of her head as he slowly sniffed the entire length of the Daenerys’s form.  And she stood completely still for it, his sweet Dany, calm and smiling as the wolf’s nose worked back up from the heels of her boots, Jon reaching out slightly with his mind to sense Ghost’s reaction to meeting his Queen in the flesh.

Jon had devoted quite a bit of time, in all of his practice sessions aboard the Queen’s ship, preparing Ghost to meet the Queen.  Ghost did not communicate in words, after a fashion, but in images and emotions, the language of animal instead of man.  And so Jon had sought to communicate the smell of her, hoping that the scent of her held against him as he warged would be meaningful to his wolf.

It worked, it appeared, as Ghost had no notion of aggression that Jon could discern.  He glanced down briefly to close his eyes, careful not to expose what he was to the wider audience but wanting to make sure he could stop any attack should his wolf be provoked.  Jon felt himself slip into Ghost’s mind, carried beside it as his wolf’s muzzle passed the Queen’s thigh to hover over her midsection, lingering for so long that Jon reached forward curiously, an image greeting him so vividly and clearly that he gasped beside his sister, Arya’s hand reaching out to clasp his forearm as he swayed on his feet and drew himself back from the wolf.

It was not that Jon disbelieved all the signs that led him to think that Dany was wrong about her curse, about her ability to bear children.  He was fully aware that the possibility existed that she could become pregnant.  But at the sight of what had flashed into Ghost’s mind his hands began to shake, sweat forming on his brow despite the chill of the air, and he barely felt Arya’s hands on his face until his eyes met hers once more.

_A squirming, yelping little body, furry and tiny as it twisted against it’s mother to feed.  A pup._

“I’m alright.”  He whispered the assurance to his sister, giving her a soft twitch of a smile before turning to watch Ghost rest his great head against the Queen’s shoulder, and he couldn’t help but laugh at the plaintive whine the direwolf let out.  He wanted Dany to hug him as Jon had, but didn’t quite understand why she wasn’t.  “He wants an embrace, Your Grace.  I fear he won’t let you be until you do so.”

 _His child.  She carried his child.  Now.  She would carry his child as they fought in this war_. 

The thought chased itself through his head as the Queen gave a friendly, merry laugh, giving the wolf a tight squeeze about his neck and then scratching along the wolf’s great neck as Ghost rubbed his face against hers, making his way down the length of her form with first one slide of his cheek and jaw, then the other.

“He’s marking her.”  At his sister’s amazed whisper Jon finally looked back, meeting her eyes with a tight smile.  “We have much to discuss, brother.”  Jon felt Arya take his hand and pull slightly, prompting him to walk back to Daenerys and their combined party still standing about in a tight cluster on the dock; Most eyes seemed focused upon the Queen and Ghost, save for two sets that glanced up quickly as Jon and Arya approached.  He saw Gendry’s eyes grow wide, the young man seeming to freeze where he stood as he saw Jon’s sister, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about the lazy smile that crept across the blacksmith’s features.

What he *was* sure of, however, was that he wanted absolutely no part in any of it.  Arya had taken down an entire House singlehandedly; she could handle a freshly legitimized Lord Gendry Baratheon, of that he had no doubt.  He was also relatively certain that inserting his opinion on the matter might find Jon himself facing the end of the deadly dagger his sister bore, and he’d come to find living a rather enjoyable occupation as of late.

The reason for such newfound enjoyment was also gazing at the pair, and Jon watched fondly as Daenerys studied his smallest sister.  Those lovely violet eyes then ceased her examination to meet his, and though he knew they weren’t supposed to engage in such ‘fond affections’ he reckoned they were still relatively unnoticed, and gave her a wide grin as he stopped before his Queen and his Wolf.

“Are you planning to abscond with my wolf, Your Grace?”  He reached out to Ghost once more, just a touch, keeping his voice level and steady as he spoke; all the while his stomach clenched itself into a tight knot as he sought to confirm what his wolf had sensed, asking as best he could what the Direwolf had meant.  He could have gotten it wrong, after all.  Warging wasn’t an exact art, as he’d come to understand from what limited reading Daenerys had found on the subject.

“Perhaps, Your Grace.”  Daenerys smiled indulgently as she raised her head from Ghost’s thick, furry neck.  “He’s much softer than my dragons.”

Ghost finally swung his head to Jon, snuffling at the King’s cheek before giving him a rough lick up his jaw.  But the contact was unfelt, he might as well have imagined it.  The only thing he felt was the curious rush of fear and joy that shot through him as he saw what Ghost had shown him once more.

_A pup._

Jon raised a shaky hand, controlling his breathing to have something, anything to focus on as he cleared his mind with a great degree of difficulty.  He’d had increasing success in showing Ghost his own thoughts in return, and so he thought of the only babe he’d seen in recent memory, little Sam, and then thinking of Daenerys, praying to the Old Gods themselves that his wolf would understand.

Ghost studied him, grey eyes and red locked together until Ghost let out a frustrated chuff and slowly lowered his head to the Queen’s abdomen once more, rubbing his cheek against the material of her coat slowly while his eyes remained on Jon’s.  Daenerys was watching him now, he could feel the heat of her stare, and he was sure Arya was doing something similar, the silence lengthening as everyone watched the King and his Direwolf engaged in a most unusual exchange.

It was Ghost, though, who broke through the quiet, letting out an irritated chuff as he swung his great head back toward Jon.  There was a push, now, and Jon saw it once more; a tiny squirming pup, then his own remembrance sent back to him, little Sam in Gilly’s arms.  And, much to Jon’s surprise and chagrin, a sense of sympathy from the wolf.  Jon was confused until he realized why, until he realized Ghost kept pushing the same thoughts, a pup and babe, several times.

Ghost thought he didn’t understand.  Ghost felt *sorry* for him, that he possessed such enormous stupidity.

“I was merely making sure, you rotten beast.”  His whisper was meant only for Ghost, but the slight twist of the Queen’s lips told him she heard it as well.  “Save your cheek for catching your supper.”

Ghost gave a groan, his head turning back to Daenerys to give her a whimper, and Jon gave a groan of his own as she almost cooed to the white wolf before her.  “Is he being dreadful to you, sweet boy?”  Dany’s eyes shot to his and he could see the laughter in her eyes. 

There was nothing else, for just a moment, just the two of them, and he knew they’d be staring at each other for far too long when his most badly-mannered sister gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs.  “Oy, introduce me all ready!”  There it was, the same pushy, mouthy sister he’d missed these many years.  She may have been a woman grown now, but there was something reassuring in having his little sister by his side.  And King he may be, but he was still her big brother, and if she thought he was going to sit back and take such ribbing without dishing some back she was about to learn a valuable lesson.

“Right you are, sister, how very rude of me.”  His sister’s grey eyes, so like his own, narrowed slightly at his overly soothing tone.  Jon fought back his own smile, because he knew he was about to rile her up, and she really ought to have known better.  “Your Grace, may I present my sister, Arya Stark.  As you can see, I was right.”  Jon gave a slight nod of his head as he spoke, Dany’s eyes meeting his for a long moment before she looked to Arya, confused and suspicious beside her brother.

“Indeed you were, King in the North.  Though I have learned by now that you rarely speak falsely.”  She smiled at Arya, then at Jon, and he was immensely grateful that she’d at least worked out that he wanted to her play along.

He did not have to wait long for his sister to demand an explanation.  “What were you right about, exactly, brother?”

“The Queen seemed to believe herself the shortest person in the Seven Kingdoms, sister.  You can imagine her relief when I assured her that I knew of one much shorter.  Practically the size of a child.”  Arya smacked an open hand against Jon’s chest, but though laughter burned to break free he managed to keep his face neutral as he continued.  “The size of an infant, really.  Just a wee babe trotting around the North.”

Arya’s face had grown increasingly murderous, but still amused, and now she gave him a firm shove as she ground out, “What a shit you are.”  He might’ve been worried, but for the quiet laughter that bubbled out, and he could see her struggle to reign it in.  Time to go in for the direct attack, then.

“Your Grace.”  Jon stared at her silently as his words hung in the air, and her head tipped to the side slightly in confusion.

“What?”

Jon gave her a firm pat on the head, mussing his hand around as she twisted away from his reach, cursing him under her breath.  “I believe you meant, ‘What a shit you are, Your Grace’, yes?”  Her look of absolute incredulity finally cost him control over his own laughter, nearly doubled over at the sight of Arya, eyes wide as saucers as she stared at him as if she did not know him.  Jon composed himself, standing upright as his sister crossed her arms over her chest and gave a slow, patronizing shake of her head.

“I’m disappointed in you, Jon.  You’ve gone mad with power, and so soon.”  She leaned closer, clucking her tongue in mock censure, her eyes shooting to the Queen before she whispered, “I’m sorry, brother, but you’ve brought this on yourself.”

Then she leaned back, her curious eyes back on Daenerys who appeared to be biting desperately at the inside of her cheek to keep herself from laughing, her eyes warm on Jon’s in a way that told him to break their joined stare before he burned for her once more.

“You’re the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen.”  It wasn’t a question, the way Arya said it, her voice measured and quiet as she approached Dany, finally focusing her full attention on the Queen who’d come to fight for the North.

“I am.  It is a pleasure to meet you, Arya Stark.  Your brother has told me much about you.”  The Queen’s eyes flashed once more to Jon at the mention of him, flicking back to Arya who simply stared at her for several moments.  Jon could not see his sister’s face, and he began to grow concerned until Arya turned slowly to face him once more, a knowing smile that made him exceedingly uncomfortable on her face.

“Before we all left Winterfell, years ago, I used to hear all sorts of interesting things about my brothers, Daenerys Targaryen.”  Jon didn’t like where this was going, not one bit, but before he could part his lips to interrupt his sister spoke on, grinning and clearly enjoying herself as she looked between the King and Queen.  “But the thing I remember hearing most was that my brother Jon was so very terrified of even making eye contact with a girl that he’d just hide over in the corner brooding while Robb and Theon would peacock themselves about in all the attention.”

Jon sighed.  “That’s enough, Arya.”

Arya shrugged.  “I’m merely curious as to how my brother has managed to make Daenerys Targaryen look upon him so, seeing as he couldn’t even bring himself to speak to girls not so long ago.”  His sister laughed merrily and dodged Jon’s half-hearted swipe at her, dancing away and towards Dany, who was chuckling as well now.  “He certainly hadn’t kissed one.”

Jon merely snorted, crossing his arms.  He couldn’t exactly argue with her, as she wasn’t that far off, in retrospect.  “All right, then, you’ve had your fun.”  His voice grew serious, and he saw that Arya must have noticed, as she drew back to stand before her brother.  Jon took to a knee, his gaze determined and steady, and then her demeanor changed all together, her eyes darting about as if looking for unintended ears about before her eyes met his again.  “There is much to discuss, Arya, but it requires more privacy than we have at the moment.”  He saw his sister open her mouth and held a hand up to gently halt the questions he saw brewing in her stare.  “I promise to explain as soon as I can, Arya, but for now you must trust me.”

Jon had expected her to argue, at least for a moment, but her pensive stare was resolute as she nodded firmly.  “Of course, Jon.”  No, she was not a girl anymore.  “Lord Manderly waits for you at New Castle.  I’ve sent for horses for your party.”  Arya looked to Dany now, adding, “It’s more of a long march than a walk on foot.”

The King stared at his sister, this next bit of news being the one that made him the most nervous.  “The Queen and I will marry today, Arya.  Daenerys does not ask fealty in exchange for her aid in this war, but rather that we ally our Houses through marriage instead.” 

Jon held his breath as he watched his sister process his words, her eyes impossibly wide and her mouth hanging open slightly as she looked from Jon to Daenerys.  He expected Arya to address him, but it was Daenerys she ambled towards, boldly staring at the Mother of Dragons directly as her quiet words reached his ears.  “And if we win this war, Daenerys Targaryen…” Arya paused, her eyes sliding back to Jon before returning to the Queen.  “If we win, you will make my brother the King of all *Seven* Kingdoms, yes?  He will take the Iron Throne with you?  As your equal?”

He remained silent, watching Arya as she studied the Queen.

Daenerys, for her part, silently observed his sister in turn before drawing close to Arya’s side, near enough for Jon to hear her as she spoke.  “Yes, Arya Stark.  We will rule together.  The Seven Kingdoms would count themselves lucky to have such a King as your brother.”  Daenerys gave him a brief, tender smile before looking upon Arya, who was watching them closely.  “I will have no other but him.  But for your brother’s sake, for the sake of his Lords, we thought it better that they believe we marry to strengthen our alliance for the war we now face.”

Arya nodded, slowly, appearing to mull over the Queen’s words, pacing away for a moment.  The girl’s dark hair swung slightly as she stared up at New Castle perched upon the rather distant hillside, and she was grimacing as she turned to face both Jon and Daenerys.  “They’ve been a bit harder to keep in line in your absence, Jon.”  Jon felt his jaw tighten, but gave a dip of his chin for his sister to continue.  “It’s good you returned when you did.  They’ve been in a right state since they heard about what happened in King’s Landing, with the wight and all.”  Arya swallowed hard, and he could see the shine of fear in her own eyes now.  “They’re frightened, and frightened people do stupid things.”

Jon heaved a great sigh, bringing a gloved hand to scratch along his jaw, and he started to reply but thought better of it as Arya drew very close to the Queen now, and he was not at all sure he liked how her hand was resting on her dagger.  He drew near, behind his sister, close enough to reach her but frozen as her low words were directed at Daenerys.

“Do you love my brother?”  He could not see his sister’s face, but he could imagine it was fierce indeed at the forcefulness of her tone. 

To her credit Daenerys stared steadily at Arya as she responded just as forcefully, “More than anything.”

Arya stepped up fully to Dany now, her face close to the Queen’s, and Jon had to lean closer himself to hear her next quiet question.  “Would you give your life for him?  If it meant winning this war?”

Jon did not care for the melancholic sorrow that swept through him, because he knew the answer to this question.  He knew before she spoke that if she answered Arya truly then her words would be the same as his, that he would give his life a million times over if it meant she lived.

_If it meant his babe lived._

The Queen did not flinch at Arya’s invasion of her space or at her line of questioning.  “Without hesitation.  Though he would never forgive me for it.”

His sister remained in place, giving a nod as if in agreement before asking one more question of the woman Jon would marry.  “And if one my brother’s Lord’s tries to move against him, tries to conspire to kill him as men conspired against our brother Robb?”

Jon’s teeth were clenched tightly at the sound of Robb’s name, another ghost that haunted his heart, another of his family he did not save.  It was not until he realized that Dany had not responded to his sister that he looked up, surprised to find her eyes staring heatedly into his, with an intensity that almost staggered him.  Once she saw she had his attention her focus returned to Arya before her.

“If anyone,” she began, “were to be so foolish as to consider such a cowardly, treasonous choice…”  The Queen’s voice trailed off as she stared up to the cloudy sky, a thunderous screech from somewhere above the gloom bringing a wicked smile to her face.  “On that day, Arya Stark, I would bring down such fury and destruction on them that they would wish they’d never drawn breath at all.  The last thing they would see, as I ended their traitorous lives, would be my face smiling at them as my dragon’s flames reduced them to nothing more than ash.”

Jon supposed the southerners amongst them might be a bit put off by the starkness of the Queen’s words, but they were not in the South.  They were in the North now, and this was Jon’s Kingdom; In the North traitors did not wheedle and plead and play political games for their lives, they paid with their lives.  They could not afford to deal softly with opposition amongst them.  This war was not a game, nor an intrigue.

And something in him, some broken little part of the Jon he had been, always alone, was heartened by her fierce protectiveness of him; that piece of this man that he was now did not feel that aching loneliness of years past as sharply anymore.  Increasingly he felt as though he had been but shattered pottery, broken and beyond repair, despairing and hopeless that his life would ever be more than the endless war he saw before him.  But she had been broken, as well, and though he understood it not there was no denying that now, together, their own broken edges fit together as if they were always meant to.  They were not mending each other, no, that wasn’t quite right.  The way she fit to him and he to her was something altogether new, something precious that must be protected.  Something to be protected like the babe that she carried within her now, something he must find a way to tell her.

Jon was not sure what Arya had been searching for, but there was a small satisfied smile on his sister’s face as she glanced over her shoulder to Jon who remained just behind her. Arya’s small, strong hand fisted the shoulder of his furs as she pushed him back to stand beside the Queen, and it was almost habit now to offer his arm to Daenerys, and she took it immediately, her slim hand giving his bicep a squeeze as Arya began to walk down the length of the dock, clearly expecting their party to follow.

The King’s eyes darted back to Ser Davos, shrugging slightly at his Hand and giving a jerk of his head indicating the rest should follow them before setting off after his sister, Dany on his arm.  Arya led them in silence until they reached the opened gates that led to the cobbled, wide lanes that wound their way through White Harbor.  Jon stopped a bit short as Arya spun, her expression hard, her grey eyes resolute as if she’d made her mind up about something.

“You could have lied to me, Daenerys Targaryen, and given me clever words that promise much and mean nothing.  Most do.  The truth, I have found, is rarely freely given.”  Jon was pleased to see a measure of respect in Arya’s eyes as she spoke to the Dragon Queen, and his sister’s expression only grew sharper with dark promise as her gaze slipped to her brother.

“Focus on winning this war, brother.”  There was a sharp glint in her eyes, now, a razor edge of steel in her voice.  “Let me concern myself with those in the North who would think to betray you.”  Her eyes held his for a beat before sliding to look upon Daenerys.  “Or your Queen.”

Just as abruptly as she had stopped Arya turned, leading their party to the nearby stables where wide-eyed young lads held reigns in tightly gripped fists; Jon was astride his mount, the mare’s feet stamping impatiently as he watched until his group was prepared to depart.  It was Arya who brought her horse about to lead them through the lane that led to New Castle.  She gave Jon one final approving glance, her eyes darting to Daenerys and her eyebrows raising as she flashed a quick smile at the King.

Then she faced her mare forward, calling out to a grizzled man in the battered armor of a knight, who stood against one of the many nondescript, whitewashed stone structures that dotted the landscape ahead of them.  “You!  Tell your men to sound the bells!  The King in the North has returned!”

\----------------------------

**New Castle**

**_Arya_ **

She’d been fighting a laugh for far too long.  It was starting to make her stomach ache, honestly, and she relieved the pressure by allowing a slight smile to dance along her lips as she led her brother and the Queen into the Great Hall at New Castle, coming to a stop before the assembled Northern Houses who gathered to greet their King.

But, truly. 

For fuck’s sake.

This was *Jon*.  She certainly knew they’d named him King, had been exceedingly proud of her somber, noble brother.  But seeing it, seeing him after all these years…it was overwhelming, to say the least.  There was no boy in him, this much she could tell in just speaking with him.  Scars lined his face, and there was something that seemed old and heavy in his eyes, that much she had seen in that first look they shared.  This was Jon, still, but he was different.  He did not avoid the eyes of these lords and ladies who’d once thought him no more than her father’s bastard, and there was a sureness to him now that had never existed in the brother she’d bid farewell to years before.

And her shy, quiet brother had brought home the Mother of Dragons.  Daenerys Targaryen was, in her rather informed opinion, fiercely in love with her brother.  She seemed to be masking it better now than she had before, but Arya knew better than to depend on the reasonableness of these Northerners before her.  Perhaps Jon had faith in their ability to choose rationally and wisely, but Arya had determined the moment she saw the fire in the Dragon Queen’s eyes that they should tread carefully now and leave nothing to chance.

Arya stood before Jon and Daenerys, her back to them as she scanned the faces of these old shits, stopping to twitch her lips slightly at the hard-faced girl bearing the sigil of House Mormont.  They were not forbidding, necessarily, but a few bordered too far into unwelcoming that she cleared her throat as her brother’s Hand began to speak, dipping her head in the man’s direction as she interjected, “A moment if I may, Ser Davos?”

The older man looked to Jon, who studied her with serious eyes, and all she could do was let her own plead with him to trust her in this, to let her do what she could to protect him.  The King finally nodded, giving her a low, “As you will.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”  She gave her brother an amused twitch of her lips before she steeled her expression and faced the Lord of White Harbor, approaching slowly to where he stood slightly before the gathered nobility and looked down at her with a slightly indulgent smile.

“Forgive the interruption, my Lord.”  Wyman Manderly dipped his chin at her, looking slightly amused as she began to speak again.  “I have been quite rude, you see, and do not wish to dishonor my brother so.  I have not formally introduced myself to many of you.”  Arya began to pace along the line of people, her eyes seeing first sigil then face, memorizing them should she require such knowledge in the future.  “If Septa Mordane’s head had not been set upon a pike near my Lord Father’s, left to rot in the sun at the Red Keep, according to my sister Sansa,” she let her voice trail off as she made her way back to stand before the large-bellied Lord Manderly, “I’m sure she would scold me most terribly.”

Whatever amusement had lived in the older man’s eyes was gone, replaced with horror at her words.  Good.  Let them all know the awful, terrible truth of her family’s near-destruction.  Let the North remember.

She spun on her heel, coming to stand once more before the King and Queen.  “I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, my Lords.  Daughter of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell.  A good man, now lost to us.”  There was murmured agreement from the crowd before her, and she raised her voice slightly to be heard over the growing din.  “I was there the day he died, saw his head leave his body.  My father was executed falsely at the direction of Cersei Lannister and Lord Petyr Baelish.”  Arya watched Manderly’s face, saw the recognition there, knew these lords and ladies were already aware of Littlefinger’s fate.

She nodded as his eyes looked over her anew, this old fat Lord with a mermaid on his banners.  “I took his life myself, there in the Great Hall of Winterfell, the seat of my Father.”  Arya patted the dagger at her hip then drew it out, turning it over in her hands as if she examined it for evidence of the act and walking down the line of nobles yet again.  “With this very dagger, I obtained justice for House Stark.”

Arya watched now, dark hair swinging lightly to brush her shoulders as she gauged their reaction.  To her satisfaction there were none but grim smiles, nodding heads and whispers.  She was quiet as she resumed her place before Lord Manderly, who seemed to swallow deeply as she studied him in silence.  Her next words were for them all, but it was the Lord of White Harbor she addressed next.

“Your son died at the Red Wedding, didn’t he, my Lord?”  There was a tense nod and averted eyes from the aged man, a heavy sigh escaping before he could look upon her again.  Arya clapped a heavy hand on the man’s arm.  “My brother died as well.  Robb Stark, your King before Jon.  My mother, Lady Catelyn Stark.  My brother’s pregnant wife.  My brother’s direwolf, Grey Wind.”  She drew in a deep breath as her eyes met Jon’s briefly, a deep sadness echoing between the pair before she found her voice.  “I was there as well, my Lords.  I was there outside Walder Frey’s keep; I knew I had lost more of my family that night, and doubtless many of you did as well.”

Arya looked back at Wyman Manderly now, a deadly seriousness that she was unable to contain coating every word that fell from her lips.  “It was a different dagger that took Walder Frey’s life, Lord Manderly.  But I can promise you that he suffered.  And the last thing he saw was my face smiling down at him as he paid the Northern price for his murderous treachery.” 

Something dark and hungry lived in Wyman Manderly’s gaze, then, something that grew more satisfied the longer she spoke.  Grief, that was it.  The kind that eats away at you slowly, that ferments and rots until it may be fed.  Arya had fed her grief with justice, and such justice would satiate that same creature that dwelt within the man before her.

“You have my thanks, Arya Stark.”  Lord Manderly’s growled response was paired with a small, vicious smile.  She felt a slight wave of relief; in this the North remained as it was in her childhood, where injustice was met with the justice of a sharp blade and a death richly called for.

She waited, giving all these gathered folk nodding and whispering amongst themselves a moment to think on what she’d said and stepping back to look at the faces of those Greater Houses once more.  Glover, Cerwyn, Manderly, Mormont…she met each of their eyes before she next spoke.

“I fear, my Lord, that I do not share this news in search of praise, but rather as a bit of a warning.”  Arya crossed her arms across her chest, giving a concerned shake of her head.  “I need to be sure that you understand how easy it was for me to end House Frey.  A feat I accomplished on my own.”  She let her eyes rest heavily on every face they fell upon, hoping they had the wherewithal to truly understand the threat she posed.  “I need to be sure you understand that for all that I may have delivered justice to those who took my family’s blood, the price paid by House Frey, by Petyr Baelish…” Arya trailed off here, turning her eyes to her brother, long-lost to her, this man they’d named King.  “Jon has always been my favorite, you see.”  Her hand strayed to her waist once more, her fingers barely lighting on the grip as she allowed a feral smile to grow on her face, the Northerners she now gazed upon looking disconcerted as they realized the full truth of the warning she now lay before them.

“Any who foolishly think to raise a hand to spill my brother’s blood, or to those who have come to help us fight what lurks beyond the wall will find the consequences most devastating.”  Arya’s grey eyes danced as she gave a light sigh, amused now at the pall of fear she could see lurking in the faces of these highborns gathered ‘round.  “Let us hope it does not come to that, my Lords.”

With that she turned smartly, pivoting on her heel to stand beside her brother, whose face was stern but for the amusement in his eyes as he whispered, “I think you could’ve tried for a bit more terror, Arya.  Got to be a few who haven’t pissed themselves yet.” 

But it was Ser Davos whose voice carried over the low murmurs that had sprung up from the crowd of Northerners, and her brother’s Hand gave her a cheeky wink before proclaiming loudly, “Now then, my Lords and Ladies, your King has returned with the full force of the Targaryen armies at his back, and the Dragon Queen herself to command them.  They come to fight for us, to fight for your King.”  Davos gave a hearty chuckle as all eyes in the room focused on Daenerys Targaryen, silver-haired and beautifully stern as she endured their inspection.  “And today, people of the North, the Mother of Dragons will wed your King, and ally House Stark and House Targaryen through marriage.”

Arya rolled her eyes at the scattered gasps, instead watching Jon’s face as his Hand spoke, not missing the ghost of a smile that crossed his lips, not missing the way he brought up a hand to lightly squeeze the Queen’s where it lay wrapped around his arm.  He loved her, and that made Arya happy, because it was Jon who missed so much of that very emotion when they were growing up, and it was Jon who deserved much and more.  Not for the first time she wished her father were here, if only to see what Jon had become, who he had become.

Davos cleared his throat, directing most of the Northern attention back to himself.  “Much to plan, much to do, and very little time to see it all done, Lord Manderly.  Shall we begin?”


	31. White Harbor Pt. 2 of 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This thing is...well, it's grown massive. Part one was around 8K, this update is 12K, and the final part? The final section to be tweaked with endless agony? The bit with the smut? It's on the way. 
> 
> So enjoy Part 2, without any further explanation, and see the Chapter Notes at the end for some clarifying bullshittery.
> 
> Also, all of you - You Complete Me. Just know that, as your Captain on this particular version of the SS Jonerys, it has been a pleasure to travel and groupboatsex, now and always. Especially NoOrdinaryLines, and especially for her addition to this chapter. She knows what she did :)

**The Sept of the Snows**

**_Daenerys_ **

The Septon of White Harbor was an exceedingly aged man.  His voice was thready and faint, hands gnarled with veins and liver spots as they gestured to the many features of the lovely Sept she stood in, the Sept in which she would marry her King.

This elderly Septon had also clearly been without a captive audience for some time, and for each question he asked about her knowledge of the Seven, or White Harbor, or the North in general he was delighted to seize upon another long-winded explanation.  Daenerys found she could not bring herself to mind all that much, though, as he’d been very kind to her upon their introduction by Lord Manderly; The Lord of White Harbor had quickly shuttled the King and his Hand off to quarters fit for Jon to prepare to wed her. 

She was relieved that the Northern Houses had not voiced resistance at the news of the compromise struck between herself and Jon, but she couldn’t fight the small smile that burst forth when she considered that they likely had Arya Stark to thank for the relatively smooth agreement to the proposed terms of their alliance.  Some, such as Wyman Manderly himself, had seemed rather excited at the prospect of a Northman on the Iron Throne, and though not all had seemed as enthused Daenerys considered the results something of a victory in this ridiculous plan of Tyrion’s.

Daenerys was forced out of her musings by Missandei’s hand squeezing her arm, her friend drawing her attention back to the Septon with a subtle dip of her head, just in time to register the man’s wispy voice concluding the rather long and convoluted tale of the journey of House Manderly from the Reach to the eventual destination of White Harbor.  It seemed to be a fine and noble tale but she could not seem to stop her mind from wandering as the Septon led them to the small antechamber off the main hall, something Dany took to be an office of sorts.

Her eyes snapped to the old man’s face as he cleared his throat suddenly, his gaze trained on Missandei before he glanced back to the Dothraki guard gathered in the narrow corridor beyond the door.  “I wonder, my dear, if you would begin to prepare for the Queen’s wedding?  I fear time runs short and I would not wish to delay such a joyous occasion.”  His voice was so thin and fragile that as she watched Missandei gave a gentle smile, looking then to Daenerys who gave a reluctant nod.

“I shall see you soon.”  Her friend followed her whispered encouragement with a gentle squeeze to the Queen’s hands, and then she was gone, Qhono still watching with wary focus as Missandei swept past him as she exited. 

There was a blessed moment of silence, one of a very precious few Daenerys had been afforded since she’d set foot upon this Northern shore, and all too quickly she was lost in her own anticipation; Her meandering thoughts and gentle smile at the prospect of ending this torturous enforced distance between herself and Jon made it even more difficult to bring her mind back to present affairs as the Septon grasped her hand firmly and led her to a large wooden desk.

Everything about him seemed a bit changed now that Missandei had left the room, though the door remained open to the watchful eyes of her blood riders.  The man’s eyes were sharp, now, and focused on her almost eagerly as he gestured for her to be seated before sweeping his white robes firmly to the side and seating himself in turn.

“Now, then.”  Even the man’s voice seemed stronger, not a hint of the whispered frailty from moments ago, and he steepled his hands together as he smiled at her above his tented fingers.  “We may sort out the real business at hand, yes?”

Daenerys felt frozen.  She was confused, yes, puzzled by the sudden shift in this man’s demeanor and carriage, with the ramrod straightness of a back that had been stooped, by this man’s keen eyes who examined her as if he knew her.  But most of all, she felt an overwhelming charge in the air, now, something that raised the hair along her arms and the back of her neck, something that tingled along her skin in a familiar way.  It was with anger that she responded, then, as she had no wish to be a victim yet again to the magic another wished to work against her. 

“You mean to work your sorcery on me, Septon?”  Her voice was little more than a hiss, and by the way his face started in alarm and worry she suspected she had been right, until his blue eyes became decidedly confused.  Though a fissure of fear cracked open inside her she fought to keep herself under control, lest her largest child sense her distress and attempt to act on it.

“I work no magic, my dear.”  The man leaned back slowly, not relaxing in the slightest as he studied the Queen, and while he seemed genuine she could not help but feel the slow creep of something moving now, sliding against her, something that teased with brushes of something that sparked within her.  Through it all the Septon watched her with eyes that very slowly focused with a sharp understanding.  “It is them, Dragon Queen, the Seven.  They welcome their champion.” 

She could not help but wonder what sort of reaction this man expected from her, but it was clear from the raucous laughter that escaped her lips that amusement had not been something he’d anticipated.  The old man frowned at her slightly, but as she struggled to contain her smile he softened somewhat, a smile ghosting across his own ancient lips as he asked, “Do you believe, Daenerys of House Targaryen, that you must believe in the Gods for them to believe in you?”

The Septon’s question stopped her short; She had no answer for a question such as that.  It was easier, she had found, to believe in none other but herself.  She had seen this game being played out all to often, had seen men and women alike laying blame for their misfortunes at the feet of Gods who may or may not even exist.  It had always seemed rather convenient to her, a misguided attempt at escaping responsibility for one’s own choices. 

But the aged man before her waited for no answer; instead he merely gave her a knowing shake of his head and began to speak once more, an undercurrent of strength filling his voice with a power that could not have belonged only to him.  “They believe in you, dear girl.  They have been waiting for you for some time, for this very day.  As have I.”

“Waiting.”  Her voice was flat and emotionless, a fact that seemed to escape this white robed man who just smiled serenely at her, nodding in response.  “For me.”  It was not a question, but this servant of the Seven merely nodded again, still smiling.  It was starting to rankle her.  The Dragon Queen’s patience was resting on a razor thin wire that would snap under another ounce of frustration or worry or restraint, and she ground her teeth together for a moment before she responded.  “And why would Gods I have never acknowledged nor worshipped decide to declare me their champion, Septon?”

A gnarled hand swept across a lined face, the Septon sighing and looking around furtively before answering.  “You are much like your brother, have you been told such, Your Grace?  He would’ve been a good King, you know.”  She could see genuine sadness in the man’s blue eyes, eyes that seemed heavy with sadness and perhaps, she thought, with something else.

But Daenerys Stormborn had been fooled by much cleverer adversaries than one old man, and she was not yet ready to believe his ridiculous claims regarding the Gods he served; she wasn’t even sure she could believe he’d met her brother, no matter how earnest he seemed.

“And where, good Septon, might you have met Rhaegar?”  She pinned him with her stare as she finished, unflinching as she watched his eyes shift and his hands clumsily shuffle scrolls across his desk before he finally closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath and releasing it in a sigh.

“Yes, yes, alright then.”  His words were a whisper that barely reached her ears, startling her with the realization that he did not speak to her as his eyes flashed open once more, his gaze meeting hers.  “Long ago, years and years now, in the sands of Dorne.  The Prince had sent for me, you see, and I met him at the Sept in Sunspear.  He came, then, in the dark of night, to beg a favor of an old man and to pray to the Seven for wisdom.”  One long, arthritic finger tapped firmly on the wooden surface of his desk as if to make his point, and now he smiled almost cunningly at her look of surprise.  He leaned closer, his loud whisper most amused.  “I wedded dragon to wolf once before, dear girl, and it seems the Seven have left me here to perform such a task for them once more.”

He must have seen it inside her, the wariness his words had created, and he slowly placed a hand atop hers, patting gently.  “You have no reason to trust me, I understand.  But I am, as I have ever been, a servant of my Gods, and it is for them that I have kept my knowledge secret.”  She could feel her brow creasing, confusion and trepidation chasing through her, but she bit her tongue, allowing the man to continue though she knew it might be unwise.  This was Jon’s secret, and Jon’s fate, and this she would not risk for all the Gods in the Seven Kingdoms.  So she would listen, instead, and see whether this man spoke truly.

“I do not know what woke me, that night so long ago, in a much different place than this, but wake I did and I made my way down to the Sept as if another guided my steps.”  The Septon turned his head slightly, eyes turned to the lone window in the rather sparse quarters as he continued, seeming to lose himself in the memory.  “And there, kneeling before the Mother and Father, who should I find but Prince Rhaegar Targaryen?  Oh, he was most troubled, just as you are.  He could not fathom, you see, that this love that threatened to consume him could be the path he must take.” 

The Queen felt her breath catch in her throat; To hear that secret fear spoken aloud, to hear that her own brother, the eldest, the kindest to hear others speak of him had felt that same misgiving that dwelt in heart was almost too much to bear.  It was the very thought that haunted her dreams and waking hours, that after all that she had suffered and lost she should be given this King to love…she feared a part of her already thought him lost, thought of him as something she would never be allowed to keep.  He was too good, and too kind, and he loved her too truly for him to be hers forever.

“I told him, Your Grace, what I will tell you now.  Do you see that door?”  Daenerys let her eyes follow the direction the old Septon pointed to an inset door, almost hidden in shadow but for the midday sun peeking through the gloom of the cloudy, snowy skies.  She nodded, powerless to speak aloud, and he gestured for her to rise.  “It is my private entrance, you see.  Through that door is the Sept in which you will wed your King, Your Grace.  Kneel before the Mother and Father, just as your brother did, and they will speak.  There you will find your answers.”

She was afraid, then.  Her hands trembled so suddenly that she found herself twisting them together, wishing Jon were there with her, wishing that silent, stoic strength that seemed to emanate from him was by her side. 

But she was Daenerys Stormborn, and she had faced far worse than one decrepit old man and an empty Sept. 

Daenerys rose, her shoulder snapping back and her chin held high, wishing to show no trace of the worry that made her hands ache and her heart constrict with each step she took.  Finally, ungloved hand wrapped around the handle, she turned, and saw the kindness in the Septon’s blue eyes.  “I’ll be right here, Your Grace, awaiting your return.  Steady your heart and open your mind, dear girl, and all will be well.”

She took what comfort could be hand in a stranger’s words and opened the door, casting a hesitant glance down the dark hallway and then looking back to the Septon once, who gave an encouraging nod.  Heaving a breath out she entered and closed the door forcefully, the echo reverberating down the narrow hall that was dimly lit by one lone oil lamp at the opposite end. 

Daenerys walked forward and with each step she felt the air shift around her here, then there would come what felt to be the gentle caress of a finger across her brow, or a hand guiding her against her shoulder blade and then she was there, thumbing the iron lever and pushing against the sturdy wood that would lead her into the Sept.

Except, as she stepped through the threshold, there was no Sept at all, and before she could react the cold iron in her hand had blown away like ash in the wind.

But it only took a moment, looking about frantically, for Daenerys to reach two fairly solid conclusions.

The first was that this must be a vision.  It was so very similar to what she had experienced in the House of the Undying, and in this familiarity she drew some small sense of comfort.

The second, and more welcome, was that she stood upon the beach of Dragonstone.  The Keep still stood, and there, just over the rise.  Those were Targaryen sails on the fleet anchored just offshore.  Relief washed over her as she strode along the shore, though it struck her as her steps fell in quick succession that she knew not where she was heading.  She walked under her own power, yes, but whatever path had been laid before her was unseen.

Daenerys stopped for a moment, seating herself on the sandy beach as she stripped off the boots she wore, eager to feel the sands of her ancestral home between her toes, though it be nothing more than a vision. 

It was as she rose once more, dusting off her white, full skirts and smiling at the feel of the gritty shore beneath her, that she saw him.  A lone man, a fair distance off, walking slowly towards her along the same stretch of beach.  She could do no more than resume her own steps, each bringing the figure into clearer focus.

The man’s shining silver hair was enough to make her heart beat furiously within her chest, but she continued on.

The man’s tall, lean build and familiar Targaryen features made her stomach turn, but she continued on.

And when the pair were mere feet apart, and Dany’s eyes met her brother’s, she could do naught but let out a terrified “Viserys?”

No.  She knew she had not spoken truly as the name had left her lips.  She had not given herself time to look at this man, to study his features.  She had not allowed herself to see the differences.  This was her brother. 

But this was not Viserys.  This man’s eyes were the same violet as her own, but they were not cruel like his had been.  He looked upon her like she was important to him, unlike the burden Viserys had been sure to remind her that she was.  This was a man, truly, his face older, but what had terrified her in it’s exactness from a distance now showed itself to be nothing more than resemblance after all.

“Hello, Daenerys.”  He smiled at her, a bright flash of teeth and turn of lips that made him so familiar  that she wanted to weep.  His eyes, the way they crinkled at the corners when he smiled so fully, looked so much like Jon’s in that moment.  Jon’s mother had blessed her son with her Northern looks, but looking upon him now she could see the echoes of Rhaegar that she had seen in Jon.

And so she hugged him, her fears easing as her brother embraced her in return, something so paternal in the way he patted gently on her shoulder that she let herself pretend for a second that this was the sort of hug one got from a father, a father who was not mad with rage and power; Dany realized she was crying but her eldest brother did not seem to mind, and as she drew back she finally acknowledged him by name.

“Rhaegar.”

Her brother smiled once more, nodding and gesturing to a grassy expanse just above them.  “I would speak with you, Daenerys, if you wish it.”

Dany just chuckled, ascending the rocky shoreline above the sand and seating herself upon the grass, watching as Rhaegar did the same.  He settled, seeming to feel no chill in the simple linen tunic and breeches he wore, and she regretted the reminder that this was no more than some silly vision, because this, here, was something she desperately wished were real.

“I’m so sorry, Daenerys.  So very sorry.  For everything, for all that you suffered.  We knew, the two of us, that it would mean war.  But I could never have anticipated the horrors that would be visited upon you, sister.”  Rhaegar took her hand in his own, then, larger than Jon’s but not nearly so rough, and she could see his eyes welling as they left the sea spread before the pair and met hers.  “I can only hope, Daenerys, that you will one day understand why I chose as I did; That it was not just the selfish desire of my heart that drove me, or her.”  Her brother’s voice broke at the end, and Daenerys breathed the name he seemed unable to say.

“Lyanna.”  She said it as a gentle whisper but it seemed to break her brother, his features first treating her to the most breathtaking look of joy she’d ever seen, then melting into such sadness and grief that she was unsure if she should speak further.  But he gathered himself, her brother, this dragon who would have been King, had he lived, and nodded once, sharply.  Dany watched him blink rapidly and forced herself to look away, feeling as though she intruded on something intimately private, not looking back until she heard a forceful whisper escape him.

“It was worth it, you know.”  Daenerys started, her eyes snapping to his as she watched him, confused.  Her brother gave a shake of his head, taking her hand once more and commanding her attention, whispering no more as he continued.  “Every loss I bore, Daenerys.  Every moment of misery and terror and pain that our father visited on me, every day of being surrounded emptiness and politics and meaningless game-playing.”  He sighed, loose silver hair trailing over his shoulders as his chin dipped and his eyes fell.  “Every day of my life that taught me over and over that love was not meant for those such as me.  The cost of my own life, dear sister; even that I would pay a thousand times over for that singular chance I was given: to love and be loved by her.”

Rhaegar gave a small chuckle.  “I see it within you.  That last speck of doubt, that last worry that following your heart means you must forsake all else, that you cannot love so completely and still do your duty to your people.”  Now her brother, or this vision of him at least, this man who was nothing more than a memory now grasped both her hands in his, those eyes so like hers peering deeply into her own.  “But you must, Daenerys.  You will not win this war unless it is together.  It is this very moment they have waited for.” 

Her brother dropped her hands and gave a subtle tilt of his head to the rocky cliff to his left, the very cliff, she realized, on which she’d landed the largest and greatest of her children before the King in the North; but whereas it had been empty when she’d left these shores, now she saw seven great pillars of stone.  She began to rise, the compulsion to approach those great stones almost overwhelming, and she stopped only when she heard a whisper that she barely caught before the wind swept it away.

“What is he like?”  She peered at him, frowning momentarily as she tried to discern Rhaegar’s meaning, tendrils of silver hair whipping about her own face as the wind grew in strength. 

He meant Jon.  Of course.  His *son*, the last of his children, the only one to survive.  The child borne of his own great love.

Daenerys knelt, her hands holding either side of Rhaegar’s face gently, and smiled.  It felt real, as it grew, a genuine expression of joy as she whispered just one word, the sense that their time together was drawing to a close urging her make sure he understood.  And so, she spoke the only word that filled her mind at that moment.  “Everything.”

She wondered that they must look very similar now, she and Rhaegar, as he returned her joy with his own, his eyes welling once more.  “Yes.”  And then that sorrow and joy became a slow nod of his head, then a low chuckle.  “He is.  And so are you, Daenerys.  Do not forget.  You are two halves of a great and powerful whole.  He is claimed by the old ones, sister, by those whose blood is the blood of the First Men.  But in you is the blood of Old Valyria, reborn; within you is the power of our blood as it was before the Doom.  And our fire has been pledged to the Seven since we claimed these lands as our own.” 

The Queen rose, waiting for the man beside her, until he gestured towards the cliff with a wave of farewell.  “Do not fear, Daenerys.  You need no gift or promise to fight this war for all of us.  You need nothing they may offer, save one small thing.”

The wind was pushing her forward now, but she did not cease in calling out desperately, “What?  What do I need?”  She yelled as loudly as she could, and she knew she had been heard when she saw one last knowing smile, Rhaegar’s hands cupped around his mouth now as he called back his answer.  Just one word, as she had answered him, but she held it to her as tightly as a mother would clutch a babe.

“Hope.”

Daenerys turned, finally giving in to the growing urge to move as she made her way to the cliff top, the grasses blowing madly in the breeze as she ascended.  It was with her final climb up and onto the edge that the wind stopped completely, an eerie stillness descending and an all-consuming silence wrapping around her that sent a trickle of fear down her spine.  She would not be stopped by such weakness, not now, and so she approached the pillars, realizing that upon the face of each was carved a figure, and though she had not received a formal education she was familiar enough with the various Gods of Westeros that she named them with a whisper as her eyes fell upon them.

“Father.  Smith.  Warrior. Mother.  Maiden.  Crone.  Stranger.”  It felt like an invocation, as each quiet name fell from her lips, something that grew in power as she continued, and it felt necessary then to bow her head slightly and avert her eyes from their sight.  No, she had no use for any Gods, that was true, but those who could produce visions of such clarity and strength did not deserve to be insulted, either.

“Oh, sweet girl, at last you have come.”  Daenerys looked up at the sound of such a kind, frail voice, to find a small figure before her, the oldest woman she’d ever seen, her features distorted with time.  She glanced left and right, realizing not even the statues remained, just this small woman, even smaller in frame than Dany herself.  They were alone, it seemed, and so she waited.  This was who had brought her here, the Crone herself, she realized, and so whatever message she wished to give to the Mother of Dragons would be hers to deliver.

“You, sweetling, have the rights of it.”  Twisted fingers pinched the apple of Dany’s cheek lightly, a raspy laugh escaping from the elder woman’s throat.  “’Tis me who would speak, as is my right.  I have a gift for you, only for you.  Something to keep close to your heart as you fight the evil that comes for our people.  A flame to light your way when the night grows darkest.”  The Crone leaned close, her breath sweet as a spring meadow as she whispered darkly, “And it will be dark indeed.”  Those gnarled fingers approached again, sweeping loose tendrils of hair from Daenerys’s face as the older woman gave a wild grin.  “But you are stronger than the darkness, bride of fire.  So much strength, so much power, within you and your King.”  Hands that looked so frail now cupped her face tightly, just as she had done to Rhaegar, and held her still as she peered into the fathomless dark depths of the Crone’s black eyes.  “But so much sadness and loss, more than any should bear, and yet you have, because you are no ordinary woman, are you Daenerys?”

Dany shook her head, overwhelmed and lost in what she meant, what any of it meant, whether it should have any meaning past her love for Jon and he for her.  Because the truth was that he was her greatest reward, and Rhaegar had been right; She needed no other prodding to fight than her love for him, and for her people and his, and the hope of what they might build together.

“Yes.”  The Crone nodded sagely, as if she could sense Daenerys’s thoughts.  “Love has torn these realms apart, my dear, but there could be no other way.  You mean to break the wheel, Dragon Queen, but that wheel has already crumbled to dust.  You will make something new, something better.  You will build a legacy that will last for thousands of years, but not for greed or lust or power.  No conqueror are you, sweet girl.  You will heal, and you will mend, and you will unite these Kingdoms.  And do you know how?  Do you know what is needed, that secret magic that binds us to each other?”

“Love.”  Daenerys breathed the word out almost silently but the Crone’s wizened face wrinkled with the full, blazing smile that broke forth.

“Indeed.” 

The Crone took her hand then, her grip firm, and began walking back towards the beach, only stopping when the pair reached the rocky band that separated the sandy shores from the denser terrain above. 

“I would give you a gift, sweetling, something precious and grand and true.  It is a dream, and some might think such things nonsense, but not you.  No, you are no ordinary woman, Daenerys.  Your dreams come true.”  The crone pointed down a distance, where the Queen could just make out four figures, two taller and two smaller.  She could hear muffled shouts of excitement and ached to be closer.  “Go, sweet Daenerys, go and see.  Listen.  Remember.”  The grip on her hand tightened to the point of near pain.  “Then, you fight for your dream.”

\-----------------

**The Sept of Snows**

**_Gendry_ **

As far as he could reckon, Arya hadn’t noticed him yet.

Gendry knew it was coming, knew he couldn’t hide from her for long, not that he wanted to.  Quite the opposite in fact.  One look at her and he’d had to look away, trying to fight back the stupid smile on his face before anyone noticed.  Gods, when he’d thought on her, what she must be like now, what she would look like…he hadn’t even come close to picturing the deadly, beautiful weapon that young girl had become. 

And beautiful she was.  Arya Stark was not a girl, and he was sure she’d still gut him for calling her a lady, but there could be no question in his mind that she was a lovely, lethal thing that made his heart sing to touch her, to feel the shape of her though he knew she could bleed him dry with just one sharp, pointed look.

She was coming, she’d be here soon, Jon had said as much when they’d all found their way to his chambers here in the Sept.  Gendry supposed they were meant to be helping the King prepare for his wedding, but Arya’s brother didn’t appear to need much assistance in dressing himself, so the young blacksmith found himself wandering the room, checking his reflection and wiping with his thumb at the dark smudge of dirt on his temple then turning to face Jon and the man they called The Hound.

“Do I look alright, then?”

Jon, to his credit, did not scoff at the question, merely studied his distantly-related cousin for a moment before answering.  “Still got some dirt on you, just there.”  The King pointed to his own face, along his right jaw, and Gendry stalked over to the mirror hung on the wall and hastily scrubbed as the Hound chortled to himself.

“There, lad, now you’re the prettiest lady in the North.  Ain’t gonna save you from the King’s sister if she decides to end ya.”  Gendry didn’t like the sound of the man’s laugh, not at all; The Hound seemed to take particular enjoyment out of needling him, and his stomach was already churning.

“Fuck off, you ugly shit.”  The younger man turned from his reflection and scowled at the Hound, who only laughed harder.  Gendry heard Jon heave a sigh as he strapped those heavy furs of his back on, the only remarkable change to what he’d been wearing before being that these leathers appeared lightly less scuffed and worn, and someone must’ve shined up the gorget the King usually wore.  He wondered if Jon Snow even had other clothing, as the man always dressed as if he were heading out to war.

As if he could sense Gendry’s thoughts, Jon waved the smith over, clamping a strong hand down on his shoulder before he spoke.  “We need to have a chat, cousin.  I will only discuss this once, and I sure as fuck won’t discuss it in front of my sister, so let me say what I must and be done with it, agreed?”

Gendry swallowed hard.  “Agreed.”

Jon stared at him steadily before he continued, giving a slight nod.  “Arya is not a child.  She makes her own choices, understand?”  Gendry nodded once more, silent and attentive.  “If something were to come of whatever lay between the pair of you in the past, I’ll not object, but,” Jon’s other hand now affixed itself firmly to the smith’s previously unencumbered shoulder, “you *will* leave me out of it.”

That was…not what Gendry had expected, and he felt relief wash over him as he smiled slightly at the King.  “Of course, cousin.”

His relief was short-lived, however, as all three men turned towards the window at the sound of a low, decidedly feminine voice.  “Cousin?”  Gendry was the last to bring his gaze to the sound, and he felt his knees nearly give way from under him as he saw Arya herself crouched in the window frame, balancing on the balls of her feet on the narrow sill.  She hopped down spryly, everyone silent as she stalked over to the blacksmith and positioned herself directly in front of him, perhaps only a foot of space between them as she finally lifted those steely grey eyes to his.

He wanted to embrace her, to confirm that she was really here, that she’d really survived, because seeing her was so very different than hearing the tales that had been recounted aboard that boat, but there was a good chance she might gut him with that dagger if he tried, so he settled for simply speaking.  “Hello, ‘Arry.”

Gendry remained motionless while Arya’s eyes searched his, and continued as such as her eyes traveled over him, exhaling lightly when she turned to look at Jon.  “Probably ought to start explaining right about now, Jon.”

The King sat down in one of the sturdy wooden chairs, bracing his elbows on his knees and studying his sister in return.  “I don’t know where to fucking start, to be honest.”  He let out a humorless laugh and swept a hand over his face, and then Arya had unexpectedly turned to face Gendry.

The smith looked at Jon, who seemed rather lost in the weight of everything there was to share, and gave the man a small smile of commiseration before taking a seat as well, motioning for Arya to do the same.  “Maybe I should start.”

Jon gave him a look of thankful acceptance, and stayed silent as the pair watched Arya warily take a seat from the table and pull it before them, spinning it so she sat backwards and resting her arms on the seat back.  “Go on then, Gendry.”

There was a snort from across the room, and then the Hound was there within eyesight, pulling his own chair to the empty table and seating himself so that he could bear witness.  “This ought to be good.”

“We’ll get to you in a moment.”  Arya barely turned her head, only cutting her eyes at the Hound then dismissing him to focus on Gendry and her brother.

He ran his damp palms down his legs nervously, took a deep, steadying breath, and began.  “After the brotherhood sold me to the Red Woman, I found out who my father was.  Turned out that’s why she was so interested in *purchasing* me.”

Arya’s eyes flashed with interest, and she tipped her head slightly.  “Who?”

Gendry steeled himself, not knowing what sort of reaction this news would bring.  “Robert Baratheon.”

Her eyes widened significantly, her eyes flicking to Jon’s as if to confirm the truth of Gendry’s words.  Jon gave a nod in return, and with that Arya’s gaze returned to his, astonishment plain on her face.  “Fucking Hells, Gendry, that’s why the goldcloaks were after you?”

He nodded.  “They killed all Robert’s bastards but me.  And they would have killed me too if it wasn’t for you.”  Did she remember?  It took a moment but he was pleased to see recognition in her eyes as she pondered his words.

“The helmet you made.  I remember.”  Her brow furrowed.  “But how’d you end up with my brother?”

Gendry sighed.  “That Red Woman and my Uncle, Stannis…” He trailed off and swallowed, remembered betrayal almost raising bile in his throat.  “They meant to sacrifice me, burn me alive.  Your brother’s Hand, Davos, he served Stannis then.  He set me free, saved my life.”  Gendry exhaled loudly, hands sweeping up and down his legs once more as his palms remained embarrassingly damp.  “And when he found me in King’s Landing he told me of your brother, the King he now served.  You told me long ago that in the North I could find a place for myself.  That your brother would give me one.  And though I knew that King in the North lived no more, I thought it was the least I could do.  I could serve this King, a bastard like me.  For you, your memory.  Hells, ‘Arry, I thought you were dead.”

He was surprised, when he glanced up, to see tears welling in her eyes, and he longed to embrace her but fought back that particular urge when he saw the firm set of her jaw and the tense line of her lips as she pressed them together to fight back her emotions.  He’d do himself no service calling attention to it, so he waited.

“I’m glad you’re here, then.  And that you finally listened to me, you bloody fool.”  Her voice was hoarse, but grew louder as she continued, glancing between the two men before her.  “But that still doesn’t explain why you called Jon your cousin just now.”

Gendry looked at Jon, a little bewildered on how to proceed, but it was Jon who took over then, much to his relief.  This, in truth, was Jon’s story to tell now.

“Because he is my cousin, in a manner of speaking.”  Arya looked to her brother, confused, but did not speak as he continued, his expression almost painfully honest.  “And like Gendry, I found out something as well, since we last saw each other, sister.  I learnt who my mother was.”

Arya gasped, her mouth a small ‘O’ as she breathed out, “Did father tell you?  Finally?  Who is it?”

The King shook his head, and he stared down at his boots for several moments before raising his eyes to his sister’s.  “No, not Father.  When I left for the Wall he promised to tell me of her, when we next met.  But he died before he could share such news with me.”  There was a heavy pause; Jon scratched at his bearded chin, and Gendry wondered if he was working up the courage to tell this final truth. 

If the King had been searching for the strength to say such words he must have found it, and there was only a slight shake to his voice when next he spoke.  “My mother was Lyanna Stark, Arya.”

Gendry watched as several things flickered across Arya’s face; First shock, then bewilderment, before finally settling on suspicion.  “I don’t understand, brother.”

“Lord Eddard Stark raised me as his son, and he protected me as his son; he claimed me as his bastard despite the stain on his honor, but he did not sire me, Arya.”  Jon’s eyes were apprehensive as he watched his sister take his words in.

Now it was Arya who swallowed hard, glancing at the Hound, then Gendry, before gazing upon the man who was her brother in all but blood.  “Who did?”

“Rhaegar Targaryen.  They were married, Arya, at least that is what Varys claims.”  Jon’s voice trailed off quietly, but Gendry’s eyes were focused solely on Arya Stark, now, as he could not recall ever seeing a person so flabbergasted in his life.  She stood, pacing for a moment, then glancing at Jon, before pacing another short circuit around the room.

And then she was before her brother, hugging him round the neck tightly before pulling back and looking at him as if she were seeing him for the first time.  “Fucking hells, Jon.  Seven *fucking* hells.  You’re a dragon.”  Her eyes grew impossibly wide.  “Father hid you.  This whole time.”  Jon nodded, and then Arya began to laugh, quietly at first, then more loudly, and finally her brother smiled in return.  “You’re the rightful King of the Seven *Fucking* Kingdoms.  My brother, Jon Snow.”  Arya stopped chuckling only long enough to draw in a sharp breath and interrogate her brother once more.  “*Shit*, Jon, can you ride a dragon, too?  Oh, bloody Hells, you’d better say yes, because there’s nothing that’ll shut these idiot Lords up more than my *brother* riding a damned dragon of all things.”

Now the Hound piped up, his growling voice full of consternation.  “Better not let her near it, if you can, Jon Snow, else your sister might try to ride one herself.”

“You’re awfully chatty for an angry old fucker who refuses to die.”  Arya’s words were softened, at least minimally, by the current of amusement that ran throughout.  And the Hound just gave her a feral smile and an obscene gesture before the girl turned back to the King.

“I don’t know for certain that I can, Arya, but it’s likely.”  Jon shrugged, amused at his sister’s excitement, and, Gendry reckoned, his relief that she’d reacted so positively to it all.  “We will learn the truth of that notion today, for better or worse, I reckon.”

“Now you listen, brother.”  Arya’s hands were on her hips, eyes full of feigned indignation.  “King or not, having your own dragon is dreadfully unfair since you already have Ghost, and I’ll consider it an unrecoverable insult unless I am allowed to ride one of those two dragons that’ve been circling about all day.” 

Jon scoffed mockingly, standing and looking down at his sister.  “I see we’re making all sorts of demands, *Lady* Arya.”  Gendry winced as Arya’s eyes narrowed, her lips thinning as her brother fought back a laugh.

“I’m surprised the Queen can put up with you, brother.  Is she aware of how much time you spend moping?”  Jon just rolled his eyes and snorted, shaking his head as he walked over to the looking glass, examining himself once more.

“You’re right.  I do look rather somber.”  Jon heaved a sigh a looked over to Arya.  “Enough jests, come and give your brother a hug, then, before we get marched down to the Sept.” 

Gendry couldn’t help but smile at Arya’s answering grin, a smile that grew wider as the two hugged each other tightly, Arya’s arms locking around her brother’s neck and the King’s eyes squeezed tightly shut.  Jon released his sister, grasping her shoulders as he looked upon her seriously.  “Today looks to be rather busy, sister.  I don’t suppose you could be convinced to delay your request to a day when I am not marrying the Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?”

Arya’s eyes grew large, as if she’d just remembered that fact, distracted by the news both he and Jon had shared with her.  “It doesn’t have to be today, but at least before we are all possibly killed by the huge army of the undead?”

Jon gave an amused sigh.  “Fine.  Good to see you’re still just as fucking pushy as you always were.”

Arya snorted in return, crossing her arms across her leather-clad chest and grinning.  “Of course.  How do you think I survived?  Being pushy and sticking them with the pointy end.”

“Aye.  Good advice from your favorite brother.”  Arya narrowed her eyes at her brother and Gendry couldn’t help but laugh, prompting a slow rolling of her eyes as Jon’s sister kept her gaze trained on the King.

“I can relieve you of such foolishness as these two cause whenever you wish, *Your Grace*.”  Jon gave a chuckle at his sister’s words, rising to stand beside Gendry and putting a hand on the smith’s back.

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid.  This one’s family, and a damn fine smith at that.”  Gendry stood a bit straighter, a bit prouder maybe, but it couldn’t be helped.  Jon Snow was just about the finest man he knew, and he’d take such praise of his skills from such a King as this one any time it was offered.  Jon then pointed his free hand in the Hound’s direction.  “That one is probably the only one I trust around my family, considering what he did for you…and Sansa.”

At her sister’s name Arya dipped her head, turning to look at the Hound for a beat before speaking quietly.  “She told me you tried to get her out of King’s Landing.  She wished she had gone with you, instead of Littlefinger.”  The King’s sister gave a shaky exhale, her eyes serious and sad.  “Things got far worse for her after that.”

They were saved from what Gendry knew to be a rather somber topic by a knock at the door.  At Jon’s call to enter they were greeted by the sight of Qhono, the Queen’s blood rider, who looked upon them all before addressing the King.  “It is time.  The Khaleesi requests this one,” the larger man pointed to Gendry, “to come to her now, she says he is to walk with her.”

Gendry nodded, turning to leave as Qhono departed, his hand on the knob of the open door.  He only stopped at the sound of Arya’s voice, and she appeared even more confused by the Queen’s request as she asked, “Why would she ask for you to give her away?  She barely knows you.”

“We’re family.”  Gendry smiled, fixing the cloak Davos had given him, the last relic of the King he’d served before Jon, around his shoulders, the Stag of House Baratheon prominent across his back.  He closed the door soundly behind him, something like pride coursing through him as he walked the path to the Queen’s rooms.

The Queen was family, true.  The King was, as well.  And though she might not have considered the notion yet, if they were meant to risk their lives in this war Gendry was determined that Arya would be his family as well, but not as the others were.  No, Gendry would make her his wife.

She was, after all, the most beautiful, lethal thing he’d ever chanced across. 

He may not know how to court a lady, but she was no lady.  She was a weapon, and he would see her become his, and he hers, before the war to come.  Of that, he was certain.

\-------------

The Queen was seated by the open window of the dressing rooms she’d been granted, only Missandei and her Dothraki guards about when Gendry let himself in.

“You sent for me, Your Grace?” 

Gendry had wondered if there would be the same nervous tension in Daenerys’s chambers as had been in Jon’s, but the Queen just turned her head and smiled serenely, prompting an answering grin from him.  “I did, my *Lord*.”  She stood, her simple white gown billowing around her as she shook the wrinkles from her skirts.  Considering some of the more, well, revealing things the she’d worn on that bloody ship this dress was positively modest, but then this was not a woman who needed fancy silks to make her beautiful.

He could acknowledge that, if asked by most men, they’d declare her what Gendry’d already heard about this young Targaryen Queen; certainly she was beautiful, the most beautiful, he’d been told.  He found, though, that he preferred dark hair and a strong sword hand in his women, but he’d not begrudge that Jon was certainly a lucky lad by any estimation.

But he was no Lord, not yet, not even if named so by the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and her soon-to-be King, so he ducked his head awkwardly at the title before waving his hand.  “Not just yet, but I’m in no rush to do anything but find my way to a forge, if I’m honest.”

Daenerys smiled, leaving the window and walking over to a sparsely covered desk, a few scattered scrolls and sheets of parchment spread hastily upon it.  “Honest you are, cousin, and humble as well.  And by this signature, I officially acknowledge you, Gendry, the last blood of House Baratheon, as Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End.”  She signed the page before her with a flourish, pulling the quill away quickly to blow short puffs of air across the ink.

He stood in silence for a moment, numb, his ears slightly buzzing as the reality of what she’d just done broke across his mind like a wave upon the shore.  It seemed so…well, simple was all he could think, and he let out a startled laugh.  “Just like that, then?”

Daenerys smiled, a wide, toothy grin that made her look young, so unlike the formal, stern Dragon Queen he’d met.  “Just like that.  Jon signed aboard the ship, but I wanted to save this moment for now.”  She walked around the desk, happiness almost making her glow as she approached.  “For so long, Gendry, the only family I had was my brother.  And for as cruel and vicious as he was to me, I loved him.  He was all I had.  And then…”, she frowned slightly, sadness marring the previous joy, “I was alone.  I could only depend on myself.”  At this she paused, blinking several times before her eyes met his.  “That I would find family once more, and that they would be kind, and good.”  She took his hands in hers, holding his gaze steadily.  “You have proven truer, and loyal, than most I have met, Gendry.  And that I may claim you as family is a great honor to me, as I know it is for Jon.  That you believe in us, that you would accept a title I know you do not seek to aid us is a higher honor still.”

Gendry swallowed, overcome and mute at the lump in his throat.  There was a kinship between them, this bastard and Queen bound by blood, that he did not share with Jon or Arya.  Because Daenerys knew what Gendry knew, what it was like to grow up without a father or mother, young as he’d been when his own had died.  He’d had to take care of himself, rely only on himself, if he didn’t want to end up in the gutter.  Days spend in the forge with Master Mott had been a blessed relief from the violence and rot that lay outside the sanctuary of the smithy.  Jon and Arya, for all their own struggles, well, they’d had family.  A real family, and a real home, and love. 

But he had not, and neither had Daenerys, and he could do no more but smile sadly and nod, his eyes welling with unshed tears of his own.  He sniffed, then cleared his throat, not wanting to dampen what should be a glad day for the woman before him.  His family.

“I’ll serve your House, and House Stark, ‘til my dying day.  And my children will serve yours just as truly.  I swear it.”  He grimaced as the words left his mouth; he really was as stupid as Arya had loved to claim, long ago, and he opened his mouth to apologize only to be stopped by the Queen’s brilliant smile.

“No, don’t.  Don’t apologize.”  She shook her head, her eyes peaceful.  “I thank you, my Lord.”  Daenerys gestured to the door, a silent Missandei giving Gendry a grinning dip of her head as she opened it, her man Grey Worm waiting for her on the other side.  The smith offered his arm to the Queen, who took it with a gentle grasp of her palm.  Her amethyst eyes cut to him, her expression rueful as they walked down the corridor, her Dothraki guards behind them.  “Have you spoken with the King’s sister yet?”

Gendry swallowed.  “I did.  So did the King.”

Daenerys raised her eyebrows, her lips parting as she considered his words.  “Did he tell her?”  She kept her voice low, giving a courteous nod to every Northerner they passed as they approached the great doors that led into the Sept itself, but he did not answer until they were alone, just the two of them, waiting for the heavy doors to part.

“We both did.”  Gendry swept a hand across his torso with a bit of a flourish, standing a little straighter.  “She hasn’t gutted me yet, so I’d say it went well.”

He smiled at the amused chuckle the Queen gave, her eyes meeting his in the silence of the antechamber.  “The King’s sister is most impressive.”  Dany faced forward again, but eyed him silently for a moment as they stood together.  “They are rather hard to resist, aren’t they?  These wolves of Winterfell?”

Gendry turned his head swiftly, studying the knowing look in the Queen’s eyes, frowning as she smiled innocently.  “I’ve no will to resist her, cousin.  If she wants me, I’m hers.  Always have been.”  He’d looked away, not able to keep his gaze on her as he spoke, but the Queen’s hand squeezed lightly against his arm, forcing his eyes back to hers.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting to see, what her reaction would be to this admittance that there was no one for him but Arya Stark, even though he knew he’d never deserve her.  But there was only a gentle understanding in the Queen’s eyes, a soft smile as she stared at him for a moment before facing the door once more, the approaching sounds of booted feet from the opposite side signaling that the doors would open momentarily.

\-----------

Gendry felt as though he could not breathe; He supposed that, at least in part, it was due to the frantic pulse of his heartbeat as he walked before these Lords and Ladies in his father’s sigil.  In his nervous mind he was sure they’d see him as some sort of pretender, or worse yet, still just a bastard unworthy of calling himself on of their number.  However, an argument could be made that the moment he’d escorted Daenerys Targaryen into the Sept of the Snows, the moment all eyes had focused on the pair slowly making their way towards the waiting Septon and King in the North…well, it had seemed to Gendry, at that moment, as if all the air had departed the room, as if all held their breath, a heavy hush falling liking the drifting snow outside.

It did not escape his notice, either, that the Northern Lords looked carefully upon his own face, recognition sparking there, before looking to the Queen, scattered mouths dropping open at the sight of her.

But, Gendry noted with a quiet chuckle, there were none so bewitched by the sight of the beautiful Queen than the King, his eyes wide as saucers and his lips parted as he watched their approach, and he gave Jon a small, twisting smile as the drew even with the dark-haired man. 

The Septon, as old and wrinkled as aged leather, smiled kindly at Gendry, a small dip of his head towards a still silently staring Jon indicating that he should present the Queen to her groom.  He did so as graciously as he could, watching Jon Snow give himself a visible shake as Daenerys gave Gendry a light embrace and a whispered, “Thank you”.  And then Gendry let go, the Queen firmly grasping the King’s left hand with her right as they turned together to face the Septon.

Gendry stepped back, taking a place beside Tyrion amongst the Queen’s party occupying the left of the Sept, and he glanced to his right to see Arya watching him carefully.  It wasn’t the place, or the time, but he couldn’t help but give a subtle flourishing gesture with his hand as he dipped his chin towards her and mouthed a silent “milady” to her.  He felt his stomach light with something that felt like fire as she crossed her arms at him, her eyes cross, but as her face turned to look upon her brother and the Queen he saw a smile flit across her face.

He barely had time to exhale in relief before the Septon began to speak, his voice slicing through the still weighty silence as a hot knife would through butter.  Gendry watched him look fondly between the royals before him as he spoke.  “My Lords and Ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife.  One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

A gnarled hand raised from the Septon’s robes, clutching a ribbon that he thought must have been white, perhaps even cream, at some point in time.  Now, though, it was blemished and discolored with age, but it did not appear that the King and Queen even noticed, seeing none but the other as the priest wound the ribbon around their wrists into a loose knot, Jon’s larger fingers interlaced with Daenerys’s smaller, slimmer ones, and he almost thought he could see the whites of their knuckles as they clasped their hands together tightly.

From his vantage point it was Jon’s face he could see, and he found himself unable to look away as the Septon spoke again, the intensity in Jon’s clenched jaw, the tendons standing out against the man’s neck a signal to those who might know the man beyond mere acquaintance that he was fighting to control the emotions blazing in his grey eyes: love, that was obvious to Gendry, but also a fierceness that was devoted and steadfast, and a joy that he doubted Jon would be able to allow himself to experience in such a public setting.

The old man between the pair drew a breath, continuing.  “Let it be known that Daenerys of House Targaryen, and Jon of House Stark are one heart, one flesh, one soul.  Cursed be those who would seek to tear them asunder.” 

The Septon was forced to silence, here, as the crowd gasped almost in unison, a great screeching dragon cry rending through the air with such force that it seemed to shake the very walls of the Sept, as if the beasts that flew above the clouds wished to remind those gathered of what might lay in wait to destroy those who sought to move against the King and Queen.  The aged man had remained unruffled, though, merely giving a small smile to the pair before speaking once more.  “In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.” 

The once more silent crowd watched as the Septon unraveled the ribbon, a weighty look passing over his features, his voice now louder than ever before as he gave his command to the King and Queen.  “Look upon each other and say the words, that the Seven may witness your oath to each other this day.”

Something swept across him then, something that howled like a windstorm, and bayed like a wolf.  Something that rang through him like a hammer against steel.  It was not something he could hear, more something that he felt within, a power that was almost palpable sweeping through the still hall.  He glanced around discreetly, searching to see that any other might have been so moved, but the only other glancing about was Arya, her eyes disquieted as they met his.  She’d sensed it to, and he could tell she noticed the same in him, but all he could manage was a gentle shrug before Jon and Daenerys began speaking. 

The Queen’s voice was low and steady, easy to hear but blending almost seamlessly with Jon’s gravelly tone, and he almost felt as though a vise squeezed against his lungs as they refused to fill, his chest burning as the pair spoke, the silence from the crowd reverent as they witnessed the two swear their oaths.

But it was Jon’s he could hear most clearly, the low register easier for his ears to parse as the King recited his pledge, invoking the names of the seven as the Queen did, swearing himself to her as she swore herself to him, for this day and the rest of their days.

It was as the final words fell from their lips that air seemed to flood his starved lungs, a smile as bright as the noonday sun breaking through cloudy skies crossing the King’s face as he looked to the Septon, who nodded and gestured to the Queen with his hand.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love.”  Gendry had assumed that this would remain a chaste affair, but in that he had been mistaken as the Jon swept Daenerys into his arms, kissing her tenderly but with enough force to bend her back a touch, turning the contact into such a prolonged affair that it prompted heavyset Wyman Manderly to hoot out in amusement, “That’s how a Northern King kisses his Queen, lads!”

Jon stood upright then, releasing the Queen and turning to face the assembled crowd as he took the Queen’s hand in his, Daenerys looking flushed and slightly dazed, maintaining what appeared to be the last of her polite reserve as the corners of her lips twitched, her eyes dancing between the group before them and her King.  Her husband, now, Gendry thought, happiness for the two he’d come to respect as he did no other flooding through him as the King and Queen made their way to the doors at the back of the Sept, man and wife before the world now.

And it was Arya Gendry sought, his eyes finding her as she conversed quietly with Davos, but the King’s Hand only gave the smith a friendly squeeze on the shoulder as he hurried off, following Jon and Daenerys as they made their way outside to the cheers of the smallfolk gathered outside the Sept.

The King’s sister broke the silence first, her hand raising to pluck at the Baratheon cloak he wore.  “So my brother and his Queen have made you a Lord now.  Never thought you’d go for something like that, to be honest.”  Her eyes were questioning, yes, but not in a way that passed judgement, only reflecting a curiosity that he could find no fault with.

Gendry proffered his elbow, Arya taking it with an exaggerated reluctance that made his throat tight, knowing her well enough to know she’d never do such unless she wanted to.  As they walked slowly towards the doors Gendry looked at her, keeping his voice quiet and leaning in slightly so that only she could hear him.  “I didn’t either.  Don’t even know how to be a Lord, not really.”

Arya’s head tilted sideways, eyes probing deeply now.  “Then why accept the title?”

He hooked his thumb in the direction of the knot of people gathered around the King and Queen, now visible as they approached the doors.  “Because I’ll do what I must to support them.  If becoming Lord of the Stormlands keeps the realms peaceful then I’d be naught but a coward to refuse.”

Gendry felt a slight tightening of her hand on his arm, so swift he might have missed it if he hadn’t been aware of her every touch, but she gave nothing away on her face as she sighed.  Looking ahead to her brother, but still addressing him, she finally spoke.

“Best seat yourself beside me for the feast then.  Someone’s got to teach you the proper forks to use.”  She gave him a small smile, but it might as well have been open-mouthed and grinning coming from her, and he gave her the same in return.

“Many thanks, my Lady.”  He said it in jest, of course, and fought back a laugh at the affronted look in her eyes as her head whipped back towards him.

“You call me that again and I’ll black your fucking eye.” 

Her muttered words didn’t seem to come out as harshly as she might’ve wished, and Gendry couldn’t stop the sharp bark of laughter, nor the rush of fondness as he gazed back.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

\---------------

**The Sept of the Snows**

**_Varys_ **

The Spider lingered as the crowd dispersed, dipping back into the shadows cast by the seven statues lining the Sept until there was only himself and the old Sept, the other man kneeling at the altar before the Mother and Father in silent prayer.

Once the heavy doors had been shut he made his silent approach, but for all his stealth the man’s eyes were on his as he drew close to the altar.  The Septon gave a groan before rising on creaking joints, his old features underplaying the sharpness of the mind within that shone through eyes that searched those of the Queen’s Master of Whispers.

He studied this man who should not be here, this man who was said to have died more than twenty years ago, this man whose identity would be obvious only to a man such as Varys.  And he decided to play no games, instead addressing the man quietly and bluntly.  “I have not seen you in some time, High Septon.”

Varys had thought to see panic, or fear, but the man he’d known as High Septon Maynard, almost a lifetime ago, just chuckled, arthritic hand waving him along as he headed for the door to what must be his private quarters.  “Not here, Spider.  Not here.”

The eunuch mutely complied, his robes sweeping the stone floors as he traversed a dark, cramped hallway that led to a large but austere chamber beyond.  He remained silent as the Septon seated himself at a large wooden desk, old fingers fumbling at a drawer as he began to speak, answering the Spider’s questions as seamlessly as if he could see them forming in the man’s eyes.

“You wish to know how I came to be here, I assume?”  Varys gave a slight nod, watching the man’s face as closely as he listened to his words.  “Twas Rhaegar who summoned me to Dorne, and Rhaegar who beseeched me to annul his marriage, to wed him to the Lady Lyanna, that much I assume you know, unless your little birds have diminished in their effectiveness.”

Varys folded his hands together and pressed them against his midsection.  “Indeed, but it was not Rhaegar who sent you here, was it?  And led you to be presumed dead in the aftermath of the rebellion?”

The Septon looked down, studying his own clasped hands silently before he answered.  “No.  It was Ser Arthur Dayne who entreated me to call upon the Lady Ashara at Starfall, before I returned to King’s Landing.”  The old man’s breath seemed labored, Varys thought, as if the memories themselves pained him.  Still he studied his hands, his voice wavering with emotion.  “And it was at Starfall that I learned the fate of the Last Dragon.  I knew then that I could never return to the Capitol.  If Robert had learned the truth, that I had wed Lyanna and Rhaegar, it would have made a liar out of him.  I knew I would not be safe, as did the Lady Ashara.”

Now the man looked up, eyes as heavy and ancient as any Varys could remember seeing, a piercing blue full of such sadness that it made his own heart twist.  “It was the Seven I serve then, and the Seven I serve still.  And they pressed upon my heart that I must wait there, until one day there arrived young Eddard Stark, along with Lord Howland Reed, a wet nurse, and a small, dark-haired babe.”  The Septon rose, his pacing stride steadier than his earlier groans would have suggested to Varys, and he continued, his tone almost growing frantic.

“It was Ned Stark who offered me shelter, as he sheltered his sister’s son.  It was that brave man who brought an old Septon with no other escape to White Harbor, with a new name, to be amongst folk who would never recognize him.  And now…”  The man trailed off, his eyes flashing to the singular window as he gave a breathy, joyous laugh.  “Now comes the end of an age, my Lord.  The Age of Man draws to a close, and a new dawn breaks before us.”

Varys gave a start, his mind flashing to the Red Woman unwittingly as he mulled over the man’s words.  “You speak of prophecy, then?  The Seven would recognize a prince or princess who was promised, who would bring the dawn?  I thought such tidings were more the purview of those who follow the Lord of Light.”  He could see the man caught the skepticism in the Spider’s tone, but his answer was delivered with an amused shake of his head.

“Man’s greatest downfall, my Lord, will always and forever be not in the reception of prophecy, but in the interpretation.”  He returned to his desk, his hands now resolute as the wrested with the pull of the long drawer just below the lip of the thick wooden surface.  The Septon pulled forth several parchments, some weathered and worn, some much crisper and sharper in their appearance.  He drew forth the ribbon he’d used to wed the King to the Queen and rolled the assembled papers together in a single roll, binding them together with the battered handfasting ribbon.

“It was never the Prince or Princess who was Promised, Spider.  It is now, as it has ever been, the Prince *and* Princess who were Promised.  And heed my words, Lord Varys, for my final tasks are complete and if the Seven are merciful I shall not live to drawn breath on the morrow.”  The Septon drew himself up to his full height, coming to stand before a seated Varys and gazing down at him with such import that Varys could only listen.

“It is not a dawn as a sunrises that they shall bring, but the dawn of a new Age.  The Age of Heroes is upon us once more, Lord Varys, and though I shall not live to see what wonders it shall bring, I am at peace in that I have lived long enough to the see the first two, that it should be my duty to wed them before my Gods.”  The Septon leaned over, then, placing the papers he’d rolled together in Varys’s hands before shuffling over to the small mattress and bedframe at the other end of the room.

“The King may never wish to reveal his true parentage to the Seven Kingdoms, my Lord.”  The Septon seated himself, slipping his feet free of his leather shoes and flexing his feet in turns.  “But should he wish to, you hold in your hand what will be required to prove his legitimacy.  My final task for my Gods, completed at last.”

Varys was surprised to find himself speechless, his hands tightening around the coiled parchment as he tucked it into the safety of his robes, at a loss as he watched the man prepare for bed, only rising when the Septon made to draw back the heavy blankets of his bed.

“One final thing, my Lord.  We all find ourselves here, now, for a purpose.  You know your purpose now as you always have; perhaps now you understand it’s meaning more deeply than you ever have.  You know the word whispered in the flames, what task has been set before you.” 

Varys closed his eyes slowly, a knot of pressure in his chest as he allowed his mind to travel back, to the word calling him from the bright flames, the command he’d been given as a boy, his charge in life, it seemed.

“ _Kingmaker_ ” the flames had called him, and now he finally saw the truth, the puzzle complete and the picture fully formed.  Daenerys Targaryen needed no aid in legitimizing herself as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, this he’d always known, just as he’d always known that Jon Snow would only be accepted by the people as a last, desperate chance at peace.

Without, at least, some proof, such as what he now protected within the safety of his robes, the home of his deepest secrets and truths unknown. 

And Melisandre may have been right, and he may be fated to die upon these shores, but before such could occur there would be one more task of his own to complete, one more service to the people he’d always sworn to protect, the people he’d told Daenerys he served before any individual King or Queen.

But before he died, he now knew firmly, he would see Jon Snow made King, seated beside the rightful Queen, and in this act he would fulfill a destiny that had now become far greater than he ever dared dream.

Varys rose, the undercurrent of dread that had crept through him since they’d made landfall fading as a gave a deep, respectful bow to this man who’d dedicated his life to this path just as Varys himself had, in service to the people of the Realms as much as the Spider fancied himself to be.

He would wait, he thought, sweeping back through the corridor and into the Sept, his pace hurried as he made his way to the Keep of New Castle and the awaiting feast.  Such news could keep ‘til they journeyed North, because today they would celebrate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU MADE IT!
> 
> So, a few things before we head into the final part of our journey.
> 
> I searched high and low, and could find NO reference to the actual name of the Septon in White Harbor, not in the books or the show. And as bookreaders know, GRRM has not written the sort of scene we got on the show re: Rhaegar and Lyanna, or even High Septon Maynard, whose name choice appears to be a D&D convention. As such, I'm taking some license with this oldie but goodie because there is also no info I could find on how he died, only that he did which led to the selection of a new High Septon. But it's not out of the realm of possibility that the man who married Rheagar and Lyanna might need some protection from the Usurper King as he could undo the lie very quickly, so here we are.
> 
> You also now know how fucking extra all these people are being, and I am coming to terms with the fact that what seemed fine and rather short chapters on their own now lead to behemoth chapters in trying to wrap up in some sort of grand fashion. And you know what to expect for Jon and our Heart Tree wedding now that you have seen what Daenerys experienced, and for those wondering why Jon would wed at the Heart Tree in White Harbor rather than Winterfell, Part 3 will make clear why he arrived at this decision.
> 
> For now, I hope that, if nothing else, you've enjoyed our journey so far, and do not object to my inclusion of, perhaps, a little more fantasy that is normally present in these sorts of stories, to which I say: It's a fantasy book series and a fantasy show. We gotta make it fabulous.


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